


become the flowers

by littlemachines



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Slow Burn, Trans Fenris (Dragon Age), Trans Male Character, he really is just a himbo tho, the rating will go up!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27341791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemachines/pseuds/littlemachines
Summary: And for all his running, Fenris knew debt was always something owed, never escaped. He had to repay it, the bed and the food and the large arms and gentle hands that had caught him just short from hitting the ground.Sorry if I feel a warped sense of responsibility,Hawke had said. Fenris could have died in that field and no one would have known. Fenris had told him he was alone. No one in the world would have cared. They still wouldn’t, if Fenris left into the night, if the knife in his pocket failed him.Except for this strange man who had a lot of land and doorways and sofas made too small for him and friends who owed him favours that spoke volumes of his worth.A farm, a runaway and a man with red across his nose and the sun in his eyes. Seasons change and the land and people with them.
Relationships: Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 51
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's 2020 and i'm here once more with my dragon age brainrot. welcome to fenhawke farm au!!!  
> some notes: a lot of the actual farming i'll make reference to will be based on what i know of british farms (my partner grew up on one lol) but this is also a creative work so liberties will be taken, animals will be held extensively, etc etc  
> this fic would not exist without blandine. i write himbo hawke for you king  
> title taken from in a week by hozier because of course  
> hope everyone enjoys! ♡  
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/reaperapologist)  
> [tumblr](http://www.akingdomorthis.tumblr.com)  
> 

_we'll lay here for years or for hours / your hand in my hand, so still and discreet / so long, we'd become the flowers / we'd feed well the land and worry the sheep_

* * *

Fenris had thought he dreamt Hawke.

It was cold, cold enough that when Fenris breathed out, to warm the exposed part of his fingers in the gloves he had been wearing all winter, his breath came out in visible puffs. It was one of those rare days between winter and spring where the cold was bitter but the sky was clear, the absence of clouds forcing what little tendrils of warmth the reluctant sun offered to evaporate like smoke. He hadn’t felt warm, not truly, not for a while, but that had nothing to do with being in the middle of nowhere. Fenris felt no different in the constant buzzing of a crowded high street or the lull of a land overtaken by nature.

The fields that Fenris had found himself in were vast, marked by gates with wonky warning signs of _PRIVATE PROPERTY_ and _LIVESTOCK GRAZING_ but there was nothing living here, not as far as he had been able to see, not unless you counted Fenris himself but he did not entertain the idea that he was, by any stretch of imagination, living. He existed because he had to, moving only because he knew that if he stopped, he would crumple where he stood and die. He couldn’t even consider it, the possibility that he was running from the only truth in life, because even the thought would mean stopping and for days, weeks, months, _years_ now, Fenris had not stopped. He had put one foot in front of another, again and again and again, walking between bus stops and subway stations and working odd jobs on his feet for cash in hand and climbing into the passenger seat of whatever hitchhiker took pity on him or pushing his knees into the chest of whatever hitchhiker tried to take advantage of him.

Then he had heard Hawke before he saw him, the wind carrying the sound of shouting from a distance, nature whispering a warning for Fenris to move on, quickly now, if he wished to avoid it. But Fenris’ ears were cold, even under the wool hat he had acquired along his travels, and he could only move on so much on so little sleep, on feet that were bruised and boots that were fraying. He had _not_ stopped for Hawke, Fenris would argue later, but the sudden sight of a man tearing through the grass, chasing or being chased (Fenris was too far away to tell) was enough to make anyone pause, surely. It was quiet and then, it was not. Fenris hadn’t even realised he had come to a stop at all until it made him unsteady, not used to two feet being so on the ground. He had forgotten what it was like to root yourself.

This wasn’t a romantic notion. Fenris had not stilled at the appearance of the man, even as he cut a handsome figure upon closer inspection, impressive on all counts as he ran through the empty field. Fenris had not even stopped because this was hardly unfamiliar, a man charging at him, though they rarely did so in broad daylight – though rarely was not _never_. But Fenris hadn’t stopped because of something innate. It was neither fate nor fight or flight.

Fenris had stopped because the man was yelling and it had something to do with chickens.

It was only then Fenris saw the full picture and it was no wonder what happened soon after, if he was so tired he had not, up until that moment, realised that the man was not alone. He was tailed by two others who were all running after and pointing at and yelling about a flurry of movement ahead of them: a chicken. For all the manual labour Fenris had done, he had never really seen a live one up close and he was surprised to find that it could not only get speed but height, launching itself out of the grabbing hands of the man at the front with the kind of intelligence Fenris would never have thought a chicken capable of. Distantly, Fenris realised, as it fluttered towards him, he could not move. As he feared.

Fenris’ appearance had, however, slowed the chicken. It was enough for the man to get his hands around the creature, stopping just short of Fenris. The chicken struggled against him but Fenris was more focused on the arm that entrapped it, the size of it, the generous curve of muscle straining against the unforgiving fabric of a shirt outgrown and the forearm, visible under a rolled up sleeve. Fenris considered the dark hair on it and how, though the man did not wear a coat, it did not stand on end. Around his wrist circled a red band. Fenris looked at it and then the hands (big but gentle) that wrapped around the nervous bird as he shushed it. Fenris blinked but the sight didn’t dispel. The man continued _rocking_ the chicken in his arms.

Fenris had not dreamed him but he could have. The man was handsome, with a full head of dark hair, wild and curling like that of an untamed beast, and a beard, contained but only just. His skin was pale but he was flushed with colour from the run, though it was not enough to distract from the distinct swipe of red across the bridge of a proud nose, a pigment of colour, a nasty scar or a birth mark, Fenris could not yet tell. Under thick brows were eyes a brown so light, they could have been gold, stolen from the sun that did not cast any warmth here. Everything paled in comparison.

Or simply everything was pale. The edges of Fenris’ vision were whitening, curling inwards like he was looking at a worn photograph. It was picturesque, he supposed, the backdrop of an expanse of fields and a man in a flannel shirt and rubber boots, cradling a chicken and looking at Fenris like he was merely another wild animal let loose on the land. Still, just like Fenris.

Except it wasn’t because Fenris was swaying and the companions of the man had reached him, huffing and swearing, but Fenris could not see them because he found himself preoccupied, suddenly, with his own shoes. He had only just noticed that one of his laces was untied. He thought about bending to fix it but he couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers. He had travelled north, more north than sensible, and the sun still remained elusive. Perhaps he missed it. It could be the only reason he was seeing it in a stranger’s eyes.

Fenris closed his own. He heard voices, someone speaking to him, he thought, and then a chorus of them, a mixture of high and deep demanding _Hawke, do something!_ , the sound of movement, the chicken clucking and then–

Fenris blacked out before he hit the ground.

*

There was a long, tired sigh, a sound as old as time. “When I said I owed you a favour, Hawke, once, years ago, I didn’t mean you could call me away from the clinic any time you please.”

“You’re keeping count?” A deceptively unperturbed response. The voice was familiar but it was like how you only dreamt people you’ve seen before, a passers-by from the street becoming a lover for a night. “That’s not very best friends forever of you, Anders.”

“I would never have agreed to forever. I don’t plan to live that long, not when you’re so hellbent on sending me to an early grave.”

“I keep you young.”

“You’re going to kill us all.” A sniff. “It smells like burning.”

There was swearing and then the quiet that was left in its absence. Somewhere, not too far away, there was the sound of clattering. Pots and pans and cupboards and a fridge that had been left open too long and began to sing.

And it did smell like burning. That’s what brought Fenris back into the clutches of consciousness. A threat on his life always did the trick.

He steadied his breathing, no stranger to pretending to sleep, though it had been a long time since he had found himself with no idea where he was. He was lying down, that much he could feel, back on a bed, propped up slightly by an excessive abundance of pillows. And he was warm, too warm, wrapped in a blanket, large and soft, but clothed. When he shifted minutely, he could feel the waistband of his jeans press against his stomach, untouched and familiar.

Still, something felt off. Fenris willed first the sleep away and then the panic of awareness. He focused beyond the burning, beyond the bed that smelled like another person, on the scent of the detergent Fenris had stolen to wash his clothes a week ago. It lingered on the T-shirt he had put on this morning still. It felt like a lifetime ago. When he wriggled a toe experimentally, he found his shoes removed but not his socks. A small relief.

So Fenris opened his eyes carefully. He was frustrated to find his eyelids heavy. His vision did not clear, not entirely, but he focused on the ceiling until he could see it was surprisingly low, held upright by dark wooden beams running across it. Then Fenris looked at the walls, exposed stone, grey but not cold, though that may have had more to do with the blanket that only short of smothered him. When Fenris finally looked down, he realised it was patterned with a design of terribly realistic wolves. The position in which he laid had one of them staring back at him, snout lopsided.

Fenris looked away, locating first his things, his bag propped by the end of the bed, appearing unopened, and his jacket on the back of the ajar door. He surveyed the bedroom the best he could from where he laid, with a body that had not slept enough to make up for the hours Fenris had spent awake. The furniture was dark, a wardrobe with clothes hung from the handles, shelves full of books in no apparent order, a desk in a similar state of disarray.

A man sat at the desk but his back was to it, chair turned to face the bed but he was looking down at some papers in his hands with a frown etched to his face. His hair was blonde, only just long enough to pull back from his face, and his jaw was peppered with stubble, accompanying bags under his eyes that suggested he did not get a lot of sleep. He wore a blue sweater over a white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and grey slacks, the clothes of a working man, save a small hoop hanging from his ear, a strange little detail. Fenris looked at him and then at the bedside table where a glass of water stood and spotted the missing piece: Fenris’ wallet and his phone, removed from his pockets. It took all his power to not reach out his arm, as numb and sleepy as the rest of him, and snatch them back.

And all his power came at a cost. When Fenris looked back at the man, the doctor, was looking back at him. His frown deepened and he put aside the papers to rise to his feet.

“You shouldn’t be awake,” he said and it could have been to himself.

The space between the desk and the bed was too short. Fenris’ bag was strategically too far away, as were his boots. He wondered what happened to the small knife he hid in his left boot, if it had tipped out when his shoes were removed like a piece of candy between the layers of wrapping in a game of pass-the-parcel. It didn’t look like the doctor had pocketed it, nor that he was the type, but he was still moving so Fenris considered the glass of water. He was not above smashing it against the hard wood of the bedside table and holding onto a single shard, though simply tipping the contents on the man looked like it would do the trick just as well. Fenris thought of himself as a good judge of character but he was also defenceless and alone and he only liked to be one of those things. He pressed his palms into the bed. His arms shook pathetically but he pushed himself up to sit.

And then they weren’t alone. The door swung open and the man from earlier, the man _not_ from Fenris’ dreams, ducked through a doorway built for people of average height, balancing a tray with enough focus his tongue peeked a little, out between his lips. He stopped when he saw Fenris.

Fenris stopped too. He had not imagined his handsomeness nor his ridiculous size. He had removed his boots but he still wore the faded flannel shirt that strained a little over the sheer size of him. Still, in the indoor light, his hair was not a dark halo nor was his skin so flushed and the knowledge embarrassed Fenris. Fenris was no less tired but the brightness in the man’s eyes was in expression, not in colour. He was merely a man, a brown-eyed man.

And then he grinned. “You’re awake,” he said, like it was a personal achievement. He was the voice of the familiar and unfamiliar, the one who had been bickering with the doctor, the one who answered to _Hawke_ in the field when Fenris’ knees had buckled under him. He frowned but at Anders. No, not frowned. _Pouted_. “Why didn’t you tell me he was awake, Anders?”

“Because he shouldn’t be!” Anders looked incredulous. When Hawke was unmoved, he raised his hands in despair and grumbled, “He just woke up.”

“I told you he would.” Hawke’s smile was smug now. He elbowed the door shut behind him and moved into the room with a surprising amount of dexterity for a man of his size. When he lowered the tray to the bedside table with one hand, Fenris could see he had not strained to carry it because of the weight of its contents but because he had been trying not to spill what looked like some kind of broth. With his other hand, he picked up the glass of water, to ensure it would not be knocked over in the process. He extended it to Fenris with an easy smile. “Sorry you had to wake to Anders over here. He’s never as pretty the morning after.”

Anders made a noise that sounded like eyes rolling but Fenris could not look away from Hawke’s grin. It revealed teeth that were straight and white but incisors that were sharp. He was far more dangerous than his doctor friend.

Fenris took the glass to give himself something to hold, stilling his shaking hands. His knuckles paled but the cold was familiar. Hawke just smiled as if something Fenris did pleased him. It made Fenris frown harder.

And then Hawke’s words registered. Fenris could not help but look around for a clock but only saw a small gap between the closed curtains. It could have been any time at all. Now, Fenris felt a panic he was not sure he would have been able to control.

Not without a fight.

“Don’t worry.” Hawke put a hand on the blanket over Fenris’ knees and Fenris stilled. Even through the blanket, the hand was cool. Ice clinked in the glass. “You’ve only been out for an hour at best.”

Fenris answered by moving his legs from under Hawke’s offensively large hand, even as the ever-watching eyes of the wolf blanket separated them from any illusion of touch. Hawke didn’t look offended, sitting in the little space Fenris had opened up on the edge of the bed. If he was uncomfortable, he didn’t show that either. It didn’t make _Fenris_ any more comfortable. Hawke’s hand was cold but the rest of him seemed to radiate heat. Sweat gathered at the back of Fenris’ neck. He was so close Fenris could see the length of his eyelashes, thick and dark and long.

The doctor became the voice of reason. “Hawke, stop crowding him. Not everyone you meet wants you in their personal space.”

Hawke leant back but only in offence. “You’re lying. Every cashier I encounter positively adores me.”

Anders had retrieved a brown satchel bag that had been out of view of Fenris and stopped digging through it to level Hawke with an unimpressed retort. “Every cashier you encounter is working minimum wage and probably just wants you to hurry up so they can go home.”

“With me?” Hawke sounded almost hopeful.

Anders gave him a withering look. Hawke grinned back. Fenris thought it would actually be easy to get away when his captors could not stop _bickering_.

But then Anders shooed Hawke from his side and Fenris could not be thankful for the moment to breathe without the oppressive size of the other man pressed against him, not when the doctor stood at the edge of the bed, holding some vials that made Fenris’ eyes narrow.

He spoke. That was probably his first mistake. “I don’t need your medicine.”

Anders did not look surprised at the sound of his voice, even as Fenris’ words were gravelly, thick from sleep and unpractised by time, but Hawke did – though that was hardly an achievement. It was quickly becoming apparent to Fenris that Hawke would be impressed by a lamppost, provided it occupied his attention for long enough.

“You passed out,” Anders pointed out.

Fenris cleared his throat. “I forgot to have breakfast.” It was not a lie.

Anders raised his eyebrows. “And dinner and lunch and breakfast before that too. Anyone can see you’re malnourished. And when was the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?”

Fenris said nothing, tasting a mouth full of the dirt he had slept on and the blood of his tongue in hostel rooms with others like and unlike him (desperate and desperate people did stupid things) and the cold when he could do neither but walk through it, the wind cutting splits into his lips. Always moving. Fenris had not laid in a bed, not merely an imitation of one, in quite some time. He found it too soft, unforgiving.

His silence was answer enough. The smugness in Anders’ eyes was familiar, a man used to playing God. Fenris forced himself to speak around the dirt and blood. “You don’t know me.”

“I don’t need to know you,” Anders said, tired, like he’d had this conversation many, many times before. “I’m a doctor.”

 _And that means nothing_ , Fenris wanted to say, _when my body is my own._ He didn’t. He was tired in his own ways.

Anders placed the vials on the bedside table. “These are vitamins and some painkillers for good measure but I don’t prescribe anything but food and rest. Lots of it.”

“And that’s where I come in,” Hawke announced. Fenris had almost forgotten he was there, as if a man of his size could render himself invisible. “I made dinner.”

Anders ignored him and spoke to Fenris directly and that much Fenris could respect. “You probably won’t get much better at the Hanged Man but Hawke doesn’t know the meaning of rest. You’ll sleep better with a bunch of singing drunks downstairs, especially when one of them singing drunks isn’t Hawke himself. I can drop you off there on my way back.”

The offer was not so much generous as it was practical and Fenris refused to be grateful for it, not when he presumed the inn Anders called the _Hanged Man_ was going to cost Fenris money he did not have. And he did not want to be alone in a car with Anders, though no more or no less that he wanted to be alone in a house with Hawke. If anyone else lived with him, he did not see any sign of them. The companions from the field were nowhere in sight. Maybe Fenris had imagined them, a man and woman whose faces he could not recall. He tried to, too hard, and their features shifted into ghosts, into demons. Fenris closed his eyes and willed them away.

Hawke was arguing with Anders. “Look at him, he’s exhausted. He can stay here.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to spend the night on a farm with a stranger. That would be sensible.” When Fenris opened his eyes, Anders was watching him warily. Fenris had been too busy trying to make a weapon of anything in his reach to realise that he was as much a stranger to Hawke and Anders than Hawke and Anders were to him. More so, perhaps, since neither had asked his name.

Maybe they didn’t need to. Fenris had no idea if his wallet had been opened.

Hawke only looked confused. “Well, that makes no sense. If I wanted him dead, I could have just not caught him. It hasn’t rained in a few days. The ground is so solid, I think some sheep have chipped their teeth on it.”

“You caught me?” Fenris asked, unable to help himself. There was a dull throb in his temples but he had hit the ground enough times to expect the pain to be sharper. Fenris merely ached in his bones, though that was no better. He was still, after all, at the mercy of another.

“You were falling,” Hawke said, as if that made any sense. He was answering the wrong question.

Fenris shook his head and only half in response. It was as though it was full of noise, after so long of being quiet. He had become used to being alone. When all he was able to say was, “But there was a chicken,” he wished his head had met concrete. It would have saved him a lot of trouble.

Hawke blinked then smiled, faraway all of a sudden. “Ah, that’d be Genevieve. She likes to play hard to get. Carver took her off my hands. Well, the chickens are his, of course, but in body alone. I have good reason to believe her heart belongs to me.”

Fenris could only stare at him. Hawke was saying a lot of words. None of them meant anything.

Behind Hawke, Anders was rubbing at the bridge of his nose like he had a headache too. “Either way, I need to get back. I left the clinic to Merrill since she was checking in anyway and– well, I may not have a clinic to come back to, knowing her.”

Hawke turned away too, talking conversationally about what Merrill had been doing in town and insisting Anders take the longer route back so he could pass by Carver and Bethany, _if you don’t see them,_ _yell across the field_ _that our guest is alive. And tell Carver I_ do _have quick reflexes_. It was only when he reached the door that Hawke remembered this _his_ guest was still here.

He turned on his heel and marched back to the bed, lifting the tray from Fenris’ bedside and placing it on his lap. “Eat,” he said with a surprising amount of sternness. “Don’t listen to Anders. My food is far better than anything Corff will overcharge you for.”

“The bar is low.”

“Well, it is in Lowtown.”

Anders shook his head. “Are you going to let me out or not? I have patients to get back to. Not all of us can run our businesses to the ground for fun.” He spared Fenris a strange look, somehow both a warning and a threat. Whatever their relationship, Anders had some vetted interest in Hawke’s safety. Fenris wondered if it was compromised often. Then he addressed Hawke again. “Speaking of, you have another letter from the bank.”

Hawke followed him out of the room easily. “I know. It was open on my desk because I read it, Anders.”

“You can read? Does Varric know? You should let him know. Though, seriously, Hawke…” And then Fenris could only hear the murmur of conversation as their footsteps retreated.

He turned his attention to the food in his lap, no longer steaming. He set aside the water he did not trust to drink but picked up a fork to poke experimentally at a particularly plump dumpling. It was not a perfect shape, the edges of it twisted to an uneven close. It was too easy to imagine Hawke making them with a fervent focus, fingers too big not to be a little clumsy and tongue, once again, peeking out from under his teeth. This was the same man that chased chickens and caught strangers from falling.

Everything Fenris knew about the man was absurd.

His stomach rumbled and even though no one was there to hear it, he felt embarrassed. Anders had been right, however. It had been too long since Fenris had eaten more than the little he could afford or steal in passing. He certainly had not eaten a homemade meal in some time. Maybe it skewered Fenris’ judgement, not because he was going to take the risk and eat it but because he even found it smelled _delicious_. It didn’t seem right, for Hawke to be such a deceptive man, cradling creatures and cooking with such care in the oversized paws some would call hands.

Fenris heard a car start and then leave. He took a careful little bite of the dumpling. It was hot on his tongue but it did not burn as he thought it would. The bottom of it was harder to chew, the source of something burning earlier, but only a little. He took another bite and then another and eating was like running for once he started, Fenris could not stop. It was good, better than Anders gave it credit for, though that could have had something to do with how it was the most flavourful thing Fenris had eaten in a very long time. It made his nose sting.

He didn’t realise he was wolfing down his food until he did not notice Hawke’s return. The man cleared his throat and Fenris looked up, like a dog at a bowl, to find Hawke leaning against the doorframe with a smile on his face. He looked too pleased with himself. Fenris dragged the back of his hand across his mouth more self-consciously than he liked.

Still, Hawke’s appearance helped. Fenris’ stomach churned, equal parts in delight and disgust. The meal was rich and filling but the feeling of it was foreign. He resumed eating more slowly, careful now, aware of Hawke’s eyes on him.

Still, Hawke observed, “You look like you’re in a hurry.”

Fenris chewed slowly to give himself a moment to think. “I am.” He was lying but it was safer for Hawke to assume someone was expecting Fenris.

Hawke frowned. “It’ll be late soon. You’re in no state to be going anywhere.”

It could have been a threat but it wasn’t. Fenris looked at Hawke, assessing him, and wondered if the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes were from age or from a life of joy, chasing animals and teasing friends. Perhaps both. His grin was not boyish, even when his simpleness felt young. But now, his expression was serious. Concern suited him, strangely. Fenris did not feel like the first stranger who had fallen into his arms.

He didn’t know how he felt about that. Fenris put down his fork. He shifted uncomfortably when he saw Hawke assessing him too. “You don’t know me. What happens to me has little effect on you.”

“You almost smashed your skull on my land.” His land. It sounded strange. Hawke did not feel like a lord. His clothes were mundane and practical, mud caking the knees of his jeans. But he possessed something where Fenris had nothing. “Sorry if I feel a warped sense of responsibility.”

“Then I’ll leave it.”

“You won’t get far.” Again, it was not a threat but a prediction and a warning. “And Anders is right, even if I hate to admit it. You need to rest.”

Fenris tried to think of what Hawke could possibly believe Fenris capable of offering him. His wallet sat in the corner of his peripheral vision. “I have no money to offer you.”

“Why would I- I don’t want your money.” Hawke shook his head, as if baffled by the assumption, and saw Fenris’ gaze on the wallet. He had the good graces, then, to look somewhat guilty. “I didn’t take anything. You can see for yourself. I’m not a thief.”

He even sounded offended at the idea. It was almost funny. Almost.

Fenris believed him, on this much. He didn’t let Hawke know. “Then why remove it from my person?”

“So you could sleep more comfortably?” Hawke said it like he was saying something very obvious but was wary of the tables turning on him, rendering him foolish. “That and Bethany suggested we check it, in case you carried a medical card that made you in the business of swooning into the arms of random men.”

Now, Fenris was offended. “I didn’t swoon.”

“No, it was more of an awkward tumble.” Then, in an almost quiet voice, Hawke added, “And to see if there was anyone we could call.”

It was a question, really. Fenris had no reason to answer it honestly. It was dangerous that he did. “There is no one.”

Hawke did not look at him with pity, however, or opportunity. His expression was thoughtful and Fenris had not thought of him capable of it, not in the short time he had known the man. He watched as Hawke moved to the desk where he rummaged for a while, making a mess of the mess. His back was to Fenris but he could hear Hawke click a pen like a trigger-happy child.

When he moved back towards Fenris, he was holding out a card with numbers scrawled across it.

Fenris did not take it. Hawke frowned, still thoughtful. “Not that easy, huh? I’ll start again.” He sat down, just as he had before, so close the tray on Fenris’ lap jostled. Then, suddenly, he grinned at Fenris with a tilt of his head. It had a bite. “Hi, you come here often?”

“Your bed?”

“I wish you would.” When Fenris did not stop blinking at Hawke, his grin dropped to a smile, genuine and silly. “I’m Hawke.”

Fenris did not know what to say except perhaps _I know_ because he had heard Hawke’s name before he knew it was the name of not just a bird but a man. But then Hawke made a prompting gesture with his hand and Fenris realised that Hawke was acting out a scenario, like they were two men at a bar, like Hawke wanted Fenris to fall for him less literally.

It made Fenris smile, only a little but without his permission. “Fenris.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Fenris.” Hawke extended his hand for Fenris to shake then realised he still held the card. He picked up Fenris’ wallet from where it still sat on the bedside table and did not need to open it to slide the card in, a little awkwardly but Fenris let him. When he looked up at Fenris, he winked. “For emergencies.”

There was more than one way for a man to be dangerous. Fenris said nothing, looking away, down at his food. Hawke patted the bed, not touching Fenris but the spot beside him, before standing again. He left a shadow where there was once warmth but Fenris could still feel a heat at the back of his neck. He wondered if Anders’ assessment had been wrong and he was coming down with a fever.

“I’ll leave you to rest or Anders will never let me hear the end of it.” Hawke spoke of Anders with a fondness that made Fenris wonder about the favours that were owed. Now, Fenris was one of them, whether he liked it or not. The food had settled in his stomach, for the most part, and Fenris was full and warm. He knew he wasn’t sick, not really, but if he opened his mouth to answer Hawke, he feared he might be. So, he didn’t, only nodded, and Hawke didn’t ask him to.

He had no excuse for this weakness. He was simply tired.

Hawke noticed that something small but crucial was giving in Fenris’ resolve. He smiled, taking the tray from Fenris. “Just call if you need anything or help yourself. Well, except the dog food. Champ won’t like that.”

And with that, Hawke departed.

Fenris thought _of course he has a dog_ as he laid back into the pillows, too tired to check his belongings, trusting that, even if Hawke changed his principles by the time Fenris came to again, he had at least deducted by now that Fenris had little to give.

And then Fenris thought of nothing else, falling asleep so fast, it would have been embarrassing if his company wasn’t a man he had already collapsed in front of.

He would wake in an hour too late to tell and was satisfied to find himself alert in the dark. He did not need to reorient himself with his surroundings but he waited until he heard the house respond with quiet in turn. Fenris rolled out of the bed with welcome ease, though the soles of his feet still protested in pain when they touched the ground. He ignored them, putting on his boots. The knife he kept there was gone but Fenris did not want to turn on the bedroom light to search. After a quick scour through his backpack to make sure everything from it was in place (it was), he found the spare he carried to replace it but now in the pocket of his jacket. He retrieved his wallet and phone but ignored the vials Anders had left, put on his hat and gloves and then, he left the room.

Fenris moved quietly, following the dark hallway with his hand until he found the stairs. Some floorboards creaked under him, revealing the age of the house, but it was the only noise Fenris heard as he made his way down. He thought, with some wariness, of the dog Hawke had mentioned and then, with more wariness, of the dog’s owner.

The house wasn’t in complete darkness. He passed an open doorway and then stopped there, a living room where a small lamp that had been left lit, as though forgotten. It did not reveal much but enough. On the sofa sprawled a sleeping Hawke and he was too big and his blanket was too small. Even in the dark and the distance between them, Hawke’s long eyelashes casted shadows on his cheeks. They were pink in his sleep. He breathed heavily and the blanket slipped to expose that he had stripped down to a vest. Fenris stared at his shoulders. He did not stir at Fenris’ arrival, quiet but not silent. The Border Collie curled at Hawke’s feet slept too, a terrible guard dog.

Fenris should have left, a smart man would have. But Hawke’s position was not so much comical as it was uncomfortable and for them both. Fenris had known the bed he had rested in was Hawke’s as a fact but it was like knowing the ocean to be vast and deep and pulling but you did not know it, truly, until you found yourself at the mercy of its currents so far from shore. Fenris held his breath because they were too loud in the endless quiet, even as something snorted in their sleep. It could have easily been Hawke or the dog. Fenris had not acknowledged, until now, that Hawke had given his bed to a stranger, an unnecessary act of kindness.

And for all his running, Fenris knew debt was always something owed, never escaped. He had to repay it, the bed and the food and the large arms and gentle hands that had caught him just short from hitting the ground. _Sorry if I feel a warped sense of responsibility_ , Hawke had said. Fenris could have died in that field and no one would have known. Fenris had told him he was alone. No one in the world would have cared. They still wouldn’t, if Fenris left into the night, if the knife in his pocket failed him.

Except for this strange man who had a lot of land and doorways and sofas made too small for him and friends who owed him favours that spoke volumes of his worth.

Fenris turned away and went back to Hawke’s room. He hung up his jacket where Hawke had put it and placed his backpack at the end of the bed once more. The bed was still warm when Fenris crawled under it, still clothed but he compromised on that much. And he slept through the night with something pressing on his chest that felt like guilt.

The next morning, when Fenris woke and made his way through the house in the daylight, he found Hawke in the kitchen, his back to Fenris as he took out a bottle of milk from the fridge. He had put on another shirt but his hand rubbed under the collar and his shoulders exercised under the material that covered them.

But when he turned and saw Fenris, he didn’t complain. Hawke just smiled. The sun was not in only his eyes.

Fenris looked away. The best decision was not always wise but it was right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was meant to be out earlier this weekend but mid writing a line about hawke being hawke my laptop broke and i lost the half of the chapter i had. was able to rewrite it without too much incident but i really felt fenris' complete bafflement at the power this man has  
> hope everyone enjoys! ♡  
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/reaperapologist)  
> [tumblr](http://www.akingdomorthis.tumblr.com)  
> 

Fenris, against his better or arguably, worse judgement but certainly his wishes, followed Anders’ orders, taking refuge on the Hawke farm. He only learnt that it was a farm at all when Hawke, after frying them both an excessive breakfast and chatting amiably all the while (Fenris said nothing but he ate it all, chewing slowly and swallowing the cost), donned his boots, looked between Fenris and Champ before telling them to ‘play nice’ and left on a _tractor_. Fenris heard more than saw it, the deep roar of its engine that faded with time. After giving the dog a wary look, Fenris returned to the bedroom and he could see the tractor through the window, Hawke’s dark hair nothing more than a spot in the distance. Fenris fell asleep as soon as he could hear it no longer.

Fenris’ sleep was rarely restful. He dreamt he was drowning and started when he woke to wetness on his hand, only to realise it wasn’t blood from his fingernails breaking skin but Hawke’s dog licking at his palm. He retracted his hand carefully and followed Champ into the kitchen where he found Hawke had returned for lunch. He was cutting some sandwiches in half, a sliced pickle caught between his teeth. When he grinned around it, Fenris felt suddenly, absurdly, self-conscious, patting his bedhead with untrained fingers. It made him realise that he had not let another person look at him in a long time. He could not remember what he even looked like.

Fenris sat on one of the mismatched chairs at the small dining table in front of the plate Hawke put down. Hawke didn’t sit beside him, instead standing against a counter and refusing to share his sandwich with his dog. He talked around mouthfuls about nothing, the weather and the groceries he needed to buy when he was next in town and how Fenris could join him. Again, Fenris said little, focusing on eating, on not bringing it back up at the mere thought of _staying_. Fenris had not stayed anywhere in a long, long time either.

When Hawke finished eating, he pointed out the linen closet where Fenris could find extra blankets, pillows or a towel, if he so wished. Fenris wondered if it was because he looked unclean but Hawke said none of this with judgement, more focused on coaxing Champ out the front door.

Still, when Hawke left, Fenris retrieved a towel, surprisingly fluffy, and stripped down in Hawke’s bathroom. He showered quickly, in equal parts because he was not as trusting as Hawke, wary of the awkward lock on the door, and because he had no interest in adding Hawke’s water bill to his debts. His dream lingered and Fenris scrubbed but he could not rid himself of years of dirt from his skin. So he merely let the water run clear and then turned it off. There was only a small mirror in the bathroom, a square obscured with condensation, but when he shuffled into the bedroom, Fenris saw the full length of his reflection in front of the wardrobe filled with clothes that were not his own.

It had been a while since his reflection had not just been passing glimpses of white hair and brown skin in the windows of public transport and coffee shop restrooms he never lingered in for long. Fenris could see now what Anders had seen, what Hawke saw, in his face alone but all over him. Fenris had always been thin, a test in control, but he had never looked so weak. He was strong, he knew this, because he had to be, between the ribs he could see the edges of, on legs that carried him here, in arms that held him upright, in a body that worked and fought in the same breath. But under the dark scars and white tattoos, Fenris could see now that he looked gaunt, haunted. It was as though his skeleton was struggling against his skin. He did not look well. He did not know what ‘well’ even meant.

Fenris turned away, dressed quickly and tried to look no more. At least not at himself.

Hawke’s bedroom was an easy distraction. It was not decorated so much that it was lived in, the wallpaper neutral but the wardrobe full of flannel, the space under the bed filled not with monsters but boxes of worn out shoes that had not yet been thrown away. They were all the same size, all Hawke’s things. There was no sign of any partner, the mess suggesting Hawke lived alone but it was no bachelor pad. But then Fenris opened the bedside drawer and found an arrangement of sex toys and a small red Bible. He closed it promptly and the unopened vials of pills rattled at the movement.

Fenris explored onwards, on aching feet that he refused relief. On the hallway walls, there were framed photographs of children. He didn’t think they were Hawke’s own but Fenris could see Hawke in them, a little boy with a head of curls and red across his nose, _a birthmark, then_ , and another boy and girl, the former’s expression comically somber for a child but the girl beaming, even when it revealed that her front teeth were missing. On the landing, there was a short drawer against the wall, filled to the brim with wires and letters and batteries Fenris could only guess were out of charge. Atop it, a landline phone and more pictures, one of the dog when it was half the size and a wedding photo. It was faded, discoloured only slightly with time, and Fenris suspected it was of Hawke’s parents. The man had Hawke’s grin. Fenris moved around a clothes horse where a random assortment of laundry was slung, mismatched socks and dark boxers and an empty spot where Fenris imagined the shirt Hawke had put on today had been draped. 

Aside from the bedroom and bathroom (which featured nothing of note other than a lonely bathmat the shape of a seashell with no other beach memorabilia in sight and a tube of toothpaste that had been wrung and bled dry), the other door across the hall upstairs was locked and the only one at that. Fenris wondered if Hawke had barred him specifically then dispelled the thought. It was hard to imagine Hawke hiding anything, not even his neck when someone held a knife to his throat. His openness made Fenris still. It was not, however, difficult to envision people taking advantage of such kindness, declaring it stupidity, and Fenris could not defend that man, for even the lesser man who packed his bag with all he saw of value and hit the road was a man who needed to eat, to sleep, to live. Still, Fenris didn’t think Hawke was stupid, not entirely, but his searches proved to provide little. For all the clutter in the house, there seemed to be nothing of particular value. Maybe Hawke was not stupid or brave. Maybe he was just a man who had nothing worth stealing but his belief in better men and Fenris, somehow, was one of them. Fenris did not know what he thought of that but even if he did not owe the man his life, he had little interest in taking a part of Hawke’s heart. Fenris had no use for it.

He went downstairs.

Without Hawke filling it, Fenris could look around the kitchen in relative peace. There were no children living here, not as far as Fenris was aware, but the fridge was covered in magnetic letters, spelling only gibberish as they held up too many notes in a handful of different handwriting. They were addressed to _Garrett_ with lots of exclamation marks as if he would not read what was said unless it was yelled at him. And then some that were addressed to no one but written in a messy scrawl that never stayed in the lines, reminders to pack some eggs for Merrill and get more dog food. The fridge itself was sufficiently full and Fenris’ stomach as a result but he still felt at odds with the knowledge that Hawke could cook, just as he could not understand the framed photos of a life bigger than a man and his dog. A dog bed was by the wall and a bright pink rope toy laid where Champ would have. Hawke had a cupboard dedicated to medication, nondescript painkillers and bandages, but otherwise the rest of them were filled with mismatched cookery and cereal boxes in varying degrees of emptiness. There was a door in the corner leading out back and a windowsill in front of the sink. There, some ceramic statues sat, a hen and three chickens, wonky and uncanny, watching Fenris as he moved back to linger at the doorway. On the table sat a copy of _Tractors Monthly_ and on the wall there was a calendar still from last year, the theme appearing to be ‘Sexy Priests.’

There was a small dining room behind a closed door across the way that didn't look like it got much use, though the cards that lined the fireplace looked recent. They Hawke a happy holiday and a merry Christmas, some of them homemade and others featuring black and white topless men with speech bubble puns across their crotch. There were some childhood trophies and awards on the wall but Fenris was unsettled mostly by the deer head on the far corner, watching Fenris' exploration so he didn't linger long. He closed the door behind him.

The closest thing to a basement Hawke had was a room which had to be stepped down into, cold and dark and serving no purpose other than storage. Fenris looked around because he had to, peering into the freezer and the boxes of tools and trinkets, but it was too cold on his bare feet so he backed away from the cobwebs. If Hawke had any secrets, he would find nothing but a chill here.

It was a short few steps between the storage room and the living room, passing a coat peg on the wall where only a jacket too small for Hawke, a red leash that Fenris hoped was for Champ and a red scarf hung. In the daylight, the living room was mundane, certainly not the setting of where Fenris had changed the trajectory of his life. Hawke’s blanket (wolf-less, instead merely a simple dark green) was laid over the arm of the sofa. There was a big TV, only a little out of place in the rustic house, but what was far stranger was the cabinet taking up the length of the wall. It was full of bottles of alcohol which made sense and sets of fine china that didn’t. Fenris revised his observation that Hawke owned nothing of worth, peering through the glass to decipher the pattern on the plates, the story on them, soldiers and witches and a city made of chains. Fenris had seen nothing like it but it unsettled him, like a fairytale gone horribly wrong. It relieved him, for some reason, that they were covered in dust. The alcohol, however, very much wasn’t.

The trend of photographs continued. Some were hung on the walls and others were on the fireplace, crowded between trinkets and a ceramic vase, lopsided and empty but beautiful. Everything seemed to pay tribute to a photo of an older woman, her features having aged lovingly, as seen in the wrinkles around her mouth and at the corner of her eyes, a bright blue she had given her son but not her daughter. The duo featured in other photos, fighting and dancing, the little girl growing up to have straight teeth and the little boy no longer so little but his frown still something unmoving. Both had professionally taken pictures in caps and gowns and the boy now man only smiled in a graduation photo. It was too easy to imagine the entire family behind the camera, coaxing it and his pride allowing it, just this once.

And Hawke who did not just get his smile from his father but his eyes too. Fenris looked back at the fierce brown gaze of the grinning man and the little boy with a head of curls where they stood on a boat, both holding their catches as trophies, the father presenting a modestly sized fish and the son with one almost the size of him. He held on determinedly with hands covered in band-aids.

In the most recent photo, Hawke’s beard was only stubble and he had an arm each wrapped around his mother and sister. His sister elbowed the younger brother who was saying something, grumpily, to the person behind the camera. Their mother was laughing. A smaller Champ circled their legs. They stood in front of the house, only Fenris could not know this because he realised now that he had not seen it, having been unconscious when he arrived. Hawke must have carried him in and Fenris had to turn away from the photograph and Hawke’s unwavering grin, unchanged by time.

Not yet wanting to leave the house, Fenris opted to turn on the TV, checking the news until he found the world unchanged. He sat down on the sofa, hesitantly at first but he had been unable to shake the cold at the heels of his feet and reached for Hawke’s blanket. He flicked through Hawke’s Netflix account (or at least, Fenris hoped it was Hawke’s because his only choices were ‘Big Bro,’ ‘BETTER BRO’ and ‘Bethy’) but was not really watching anything. As the afternoon passed into the early hours of evening, Fenris kept the TV on because it was the only source of light once the sun set. Fenris had curled up in a cocoon of himself, unable even to reach an arm out to turn on the lamp that had illuminated Hawke last night. Caught between consciousness and sleep, nothing felt real, not even his own body.

This was how Hawke found him.

The living room light switched on and Fenris blinked. He had not heard Hawke come in and it should have terrified him. It did a little bit. Hawke stood at the doorway and he blinked back at him. “Oh.” Then he gave Fenris an odd little smile, a little sheepish. “I thought you’d gone.”

Fenris shook his head, slowly, unsurely. He pulled in his knees as Hawke came and sat down heavily in the space Fenris made for him. Fenris watched as he leant back, arms across the back of the sofa and chin up. He closed his eyes for a moment and Fenris realised that Hawke looked tired. His hair was ruffled from the wind, skin darkened by a layer of sweat and grime and there were shadows under his eyes, not just from the light hitting his ridiculously long eyelashes.

“A terrible idea, by the way.” Hawke spoke as if he could tell Fenris was staring, even as his own eyes remained closed. “For starters, Anders would have my head.”

The thought amused Fenris. It was hard to imagine anyone taming Hawke. “I’m sure you’d survive.”

Hawke opened one eye and his grin favoured the other side. His head lolled to face Fenris. “I’m not done. Secondly, you’d hurt my feelings.”

Fenris tried not to smile, he really did. “And you wouldn’t survive that?”

“I have a very delicate constitution,” Hawke said and it was hard to work out if he was joking or not. He looked at Fenris properly, then. The movement of the television took turns illuminating half of his face and it made Fenris’ eyes strain. “You should have gone to bed if you’re tired.”

“I’m not tired.” It was an odd lie with some truth, for Fenris did not know what rest meant but this was the closest he had ever gotten to it. Still, he must have looked strange and defensive, curled around himself on a sofa that was too small for anyone, even him but especially Hawke.

Hawke did nothing more than raise a single eyebrow. Fenris felt like his mouth was at odds with his mind. “Besides, your bed.”

He had not meant for the sentence to end there. Hawke’s grin was prompting. “Go on.”

“You should have it back.” Fenris looked around, more disorientated than he liked. “I can sleep here.”

“I don’t mind. I get lonely by myself in such a big bed.” Fenris gave him a sharp look but Hawke had already closed his eyes again, still facing Fenris but with his cheek pressed against his arm that was braced on the sofa. It _squished_. Fenris felt an unspeakable urge to reach out with a finger and prod it.

He did not. He said nothing. Hawke did not wait for an answer, giving himself the luxury of time before breathing out, “I need a shower,” more to himself than Fenris.

Then, he opened his eyes and sat upright. He did need a shower, smelling distinctly of the outside, mud and grass, but also sweat. He rolled his shoulders without so much as a wince. He’d taken off his boots at the door but toyed the collar of his shirt a little as he got to his feet. Fenris watched the deftness of his fingers as they slipped a button from a slit and then another and another. Chest hair peeked through the gaps, dark and curly as the hair on the rest of the man.

When Hawke noticed Fenris staring, again, he nodded down at the blanket around Fenris’ legs. “You’re cold?”

“I’m fine,” Fenris replied. It was not an answer, really. It was hard to outright right to Hawke.

Maybe it was because Hawke considered his answer, far harder than he should have, and then said, “I’ll sort more firewood. The fireplace isn’t just for show.”

Fenris merely nodded, unsure what else to do but Hawke looked satisfied enough. He stretched as he stood and when he lifted his arms, Fenris was eye level with the skin that was exposed at the rise of his shirt from the waistband of his jeans. Hawke appeared to be hairy _everywhere_. 

“I’ll go sort myself out then I can start on dinner,” Hawke said, between a yawn. “Hope you like potatoes.”

Guilt was persistent. “I can help,” Fenris offered, rising to his feet too, albeit more unsteadily, legs numb from laying around doing nothing. It was a strange feeling and a strange situation. Hawke reached out as if to steady him but didn’t make contact because Fenris stilled himself, stubborn. He stared at the outstretched hand, knowing it had held him and yet having no recollection of the capacity of its touch, whether it had been warm or which fingers were more calloused than others. It was crucial knowledge, the kind of grip a man held. Fenris had been robbed of it. All he knew was the image of Hawke as a child with a prized fish and band-aids on his knuckles.

“Are you sure?” Hawke did not look unconvinced so much as concerned. Fenris wished he had not seen himself in the mirror because he knew now what Hawke saw in him. _Weakness_.

“I’m fine,” Fenris said, again.

Hawke searched his face but did not argue, gesturing for Fenris to follow. Fenris did, into the kitchen, where Champ laid in his bed, lifting his own sleepy eyes to watch as Hawke opened the fridge, trying to decide between a chilli or a cottage pie (he decided chilli.) Fenris let Hawke hand him vegetables with the simple instructions to wash and chop, pointing vaguely to where Fenris could find a chopping board and a knife. And then he was gone and Fenris carried the produce to lower onto the counter by the sink.

He set to work, feeling better for it, enjoying the control of washing the vegetables and pulling off the skin of the onion and peeling that of the carrots and of the knife in his hand. It had not been clever to let Hawke cook for him, though Hawke’s groceries were just that, it seemed: groceries. If Hawke had been poisoning him slowly, he had wasted a lot of ingredients to do it, always making meals bigger than just the two of them. The photos had revealed that this was once a family home. It was not hard to envision Hawke, young and green, cooking for a full house. It was a strangely sad thought, strange because Hawke didn’t seem lonely. Champ remained in his bed, ears perking with interest at Fenris’ presence but placated, exhausted. They both heard doors opening and closing upstairs and Fenris remembered that he had forgotten to keep his bag in his sight, a rookie move. It still stood at the end of Hawke’s bed but he didn’t think Hawke would go through it, if he hadn’t already. They were similar in some ways, for neither had much worth stealing, even if Hawke had a house full of things and Fenris only a backpack. The pipes announced that the water was running upstairs and Fenris paused, wondering how Hawke was able to fit into a human-sized shower.

Then, Fenris proceeded to slice a carrot, aggressively.

By the time the floorboards of the stairs creaked under the weight of Hawke, Fenris had finished chopping everything. He was wiping his eyes on his sleeve, unused to the sensation that came with cutting an onion, when he heard Hawke enter the kitchen, stopping to pet his dog based on the soft bark Champ let out at the attention. Fenris lowered his arm when Hawke opened the fridge to bend down and peer in. Fenris stared through wet lashes and then had to wipe again because he feared his eyes were deceiving him— but no, Hawke was wearing nothing but a dressing gown.

It was wrapped tight around him, covering his chest but that was the limit of its blessings. When he leant down, the dressing gown (white, fluffy, _tiny_ ) rose up his thighs, revealing strong, thick legs, covered in hair because _of course_. If he was wearing anything underneath it, Fenris could not see it but he did wear a pair of sliders on his feet. He was humming as he carried some mince to a counter and then opened cupboard doors wildly to find a pan. Even through bleary eyes, Fenris noticed how the shower had flushed his skin pink but not enough to offset the mark across his nose. His hair was still damp, curls concentrated, and his lashes were darker, heavier. The cluttered little kitchen felt smaller, again, but oppressively so.

Hawke found a pan and then realised something, looking up, not at Fenris but reaching past him. He didn’t touch him but the drawer he pulled open to root around in blindly nudged Fenris’ hip gently. Hawke found a wooden spoon with a small _aha!_ and leant back, only then noticing Fenris had not moved.

Or rather, noticing the knife that Fenris held in a hard grip. Hawke nodded at it. “Careful where you’re pointing that thing.”

Fenris put the knife down. He washed his hands to turn his back on Hawke, to do something that wasn’t stare at the man. If Hawke noticed the abruptness with which Fenris acted, he didn’t react himself. Fenris grabbed the nearest tea towel to wipe his hands as Hawke focused, _too hard_ , on pouring every last drop of what remained in a bottle of oil. Fenris looked down at the towel and saw it read _Farm Sweet Farm_ in cursive. He put it down too.

Fenris moved to put some distance between them, standing against the table. It wasn’t that the kitchen was so much smaller when Hawke was in it but that Hawke, in himself, was so full of life. He was alone but not lonely, as if he took all that surrounded him and made it a home within him. It made Fenris feel empty, the realisation that under protruding bones, he was hollow. He had never built a life for himself, not like this, not one that he wasn’t ready to pack away or destroy. It made sense, after all, that Hawke was a dedicated cook because he always worked with gentle hands. Fenris fisted his own, in the pockets of his hoodie.

As tired as Hawke had been earlier, the shower had woken him up a little and he had no qualms about finishing what Fenris had started. Fenris watched him pour rice and sprinkle seasoning almost carelessly, a practiced touch. It was in conversation that exhaustion lingered, though Hawke still talked, here and there, and seemed happy to carry the conversation, even if he spoke quieter. He was remarkably difficult to bother. Fenris wondered what escaped his notice and what he merely ignored in favour of smiling cheerily and softly serenading his dog whenever Champ trudged over, curious at the new smells.

When done, Hawke didn’t ask how much Fenris wanted but he did ask if Fenris liked cilantro. Fenris shook his head and Hawke said, “More for me,” and handed him a plate piled high with rice and chilli. It steamed.

Fenris took it and barely remembered to thank Hawke but when he did, Hawke’s smile wavered, oddly.

They ate in front of the TV, Hawke flicking through channels like a child who wasn’t so indecisive as he was easily bored and easily distracted. Fenris didn’t mind, focusing on not spilling spoonfuls down his front like a child in his own right. With every bite, Hawke grew impossibly quieter, eyes barely seeing the screen. Fenris recognised this, something so humbling about seeing a man at the end of the day. Maybe this was what Hawke had seen in Fenris, not weakness but a man who just needed a good night’s sleep.

Fenris insisted on washing up and Hawke let him.

When Fenris returned to the living room, Hawke had fallen asleep. It had been inevitable yet Fenris stilled at the door, fearing his own intrusion would disturb Hawke’s peace. Fenris had seen this before and it had moved the ground from under him but now, the sight was mundane, as human as the man that slept without a care in the world. The position would hurt his neck, another day of stiff bones, but for some reason, Fenris didn’t wake Hawke. He had made his bed.

But Fenris walked in, closer, to pick up the blanket and drape it over Hawke’s legs. He would get cold in just his ridiculous little dressing gown. He deserved it. And yet.

Fenris turned off the TV and then the light. At the doorway, he thought he saw a glint of brown in the corner of his vision but when he turned to look, Hawke was still fast asleep. From the halfway light, Fenris could see the neck of the dressing gown slipping open, revealing his chest. Fenris turned away.

On his way back to Hawke’s bedroom, Fenris moved around the clothes horse, spotting another gap where a pair of boxers had hung. There was his answer of what Hawke wore under the nightgown. Fenris tucked the information away and himself into Hawke’s bed, once again.

*

Fenris woke earlier the next morning and without Champ’s help. He felt cold, putting on a worn jumper and socks and padding downstairs only to feel colder still. Hawke was not in the living room, asleep, or awake in the kitchen, sights Fenris had already grown somewhat accustomed to. There was a draft because the back door was open.

Panic seized Fenris, suddenly, that he had somehow slept through something terrible, that he had become complacent and implicated himself in a crime, that a lesser man had returned to pay Hawke for his kindness.

But then Fenris saw his hosts through the window. He moved to the open doorway, stood at the steps, surveying a back garden that looked a little sad in the grey weather but not hopeless, only aching for spring and summer to meet. Champ barked a good morning from where he stood guard and Hawke stopped, arms raised, a wood axe in his grip, noticing Fenris too. In front of him, a station where a hunk of bark sat and beside him, a modest pile of cut wood. Fenris remembered Hawke mentioning firewood yesterday. He had not expected Hawke to chop it himself but he should have.

“You're awake,” Hawke observed, with a smile. He lowered his arms slowly, relaxing, not cutting. Even though it was cold, he wore only a T-shirt and a pair of jeans that were torn at the knees, not out of style but use. “And here I was trying to be quiet.”

“There’s a way to do it loudly?” Fenris said, to say something at all.

“Absolutely.” Hawke nodded sagely. “Usually I like to scream on the downstroke.”

Fenris didn’t roll his eyes but he did say, dryly, “I commend your self control.”

Hawke grinned at the joke. “Finally, some recognition around here.” Then he lifted up his arms once more and swung down, cutting a log as easily as a hot knife in soft butter. His bare skin already glinted with sweat. Fenris lowered himself down to sit on the stone steps. It was cold so he wrapped his arms around his knees and watched Hawke. Not _stared_ but watched.

“No,” Hawke continued, brushing aside the split logs and retrieving another whole piece, “I meant I opted to _not_ use a chainsaw first thing in the morning for your peace of mind.” His grin was teasing. “Didn’t want to give you anymore reason to believe I’m a madman.”

After a pause, Fenris said, “I don’t think that of you.” He found it to be true.

Hawke whistled. “You don’t? I won’t take offense. I’ve been called worse.”

“You have been... kind.” The word felt odd in his mouth, like a mouthful of hot food, nourishing, warming.

“Stop, I’ll blush.” Then, more seriously, Hawke told him, “Believe it or not, the fields catch a lot of stragglers. Sometimes, I do too, apparently.”

“You let strangers into your home often?”

Hawke looked faraway, across the fields obscured by a morning fog. “You know, Kirkwall is no stranger to strangers. Close to the border, near the docks, it used to be a hotbed for migrants. People fleeing conflict, big and small. Someone always needs some food, a bed, maybe clothes, sometimes just a minute to catch their breath. And who am I to turn away someone who has nowhere else to go? Times have changed, sure, but the world never changes that much.” He smiled at Fenris, a little lopsided but sincere. “It can’t have, if it brought you here too.”

Fenris didn’t comment on it (he could not.) “You don’t fear your kindness being taken advantage of?”

“What do I have to fear?” Hawke’s mouth bared into a smile that was just teeth. And it did sound ridiculous, as he cut another log in a single, swift movement, the wood splintering easily, violently. Fenris could not ignore the size of him, the power of his being. He had always known he had more to fear in Hawke’s presence than Hawke had in his. “Besides, people who are running usually have something worse chasing them, right?”

Fenris ignored the implication, even if Hawke was hardly wrong. Hawke wiped sweat from his brow. “I’m surprised you stayed though. I was sure I’d wake up to find you gone, that first night.”

The admission made Fenris hesitate or rather, the honesty of it did. He felt compelled to answer truthfully in turn. “I… I’ve been on the road for some time.”

When Hawke nodded, it was in understanding which struck Fenris as odd. He wondered about the others Hawke had offered shelter to. Hawke didn’t speak for a moment, moving to stack the logs in a pile with precision, cut ends exposed. There had to be a science to it. Fenris didn’t ask about it.

Then, Hawke clapped his hands with finality and said, “Well, when you’ve done your Anders-assigned bedrest, you could stay.”

Fenris blinked. “Here?”

“Why not? You need a job, right?” When Fenris stiffened, Hawke raised his palms in defence. “Hey, you said it yourself, you have no money to pay me. And I don’t want any.”

“You’re offering me money?” Maybe this was the catch. There always was. Fenris had been foolish to think otherwise. He unwrapped his arms, ready to stand.

But Hawke just shrugged like it was _nothing_. “Sure. Lambing season is coming up in spring. I could use an extra pair of hands.”

Fenris’ hands moved in reflex. He looked down at them from under his sleeves. In the daylight, the white lines that patterned his skin did not glow. His fingers looked thin, weak. He turned them into fists.

And he looked up at Hawke. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know you need a job and rest.” It wasn’t nothing. Hawke looked back at him, earnest. “I’m offering both.”

Fenris felt at a complete loss. He said all he could think of. “You only have one bed.”

“I would have to find the key to the spare room.”

There had to be a limit to how many times Fenris could gape at Hawke but they had not yet found it. When he asked, “You have a spare room?” it sounded strained.

Hawke’s expression shifted to something Fenris was already coming to recognise as _sheepish_. Like a child with his hand caught in a cookie jar. Trouble. “Aveline took the key but yes,” he admitted.

Fenris didn’t know who Aveline was, another piece of a life he was understanding less and less the more time he spent with Hawke. He shook his head disbelievingly. “All this time, you have a spare room and you slept on the sofa?”

Hawke made a face. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it?”

“It’s not what you think. No bones in the closet.” With a sigh, Hawke bent at the knees beside Champ, scratching behind his ears. “I just had developed... a habit of letting in strays. There was an intervention. Words were said, compromises were made. I handed the spare room key to my friend Aveline.”

Fenris was rendered speechless. Hawke looked back at him, almost unsurely, getting to his feet to pick up the axe again from where it had been propped. He liked to keep his hands busy. He was disarmed by emptiness, even the silence that hung between the two of them.

And then Fenris, against the command of every part of his body, laughed. It was a grey morning and Hawke was stood in front of him in a T-shirt that was snug with sweat and Fenris laughed like he hadn’t laughed in years because he hadn’t. It was throaty and unpracticed but real.

Hawke stared, first with something akin to concern because it sounded like Fenris was coughing, choking, but then it cleared Fenris’ throat and Hawke smiled. Still sheepish. Fenris was wrong when he had remarked that there was nothing boyish about the man.

“Is that a yes?” Hawke asked. He sounded hopeful. It was bizarre but only as bizarre as the rest of Hawke.

Fenris shook his head. He never did answer Hawke. He couldn’t stop laughing like _he_ was the madman. But he stayed. Maybe he was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nts: yes i mixed up bethany's eye colour no one @ me

As isolated as Hawke’s farm was, it was hard to creep up on it. It was several miles from the nearest town, Hawke explained, and it took some getting used to the crisscross of man-made lanes, for wheels and for feet, before the journey would not get you hopelessly lost. Fenris couldn’t work out if he was being cautioned or questioned so he said nothing and Hawke looked at him appraisingly, over their empty breakfast plates (pancakes and Hawke licked syrup off the ceramic with his finger.) Then, like he was commenting on the weather, Hawke said, “You look better.”

Fenris felt embarrassed but he felt it to be true too. They had made it to the end of week without killing each other, not that Fenris found Hawke particularly difficult to be around (just _strange_ , easily pleased, even at what little scraps Fenris fed him in return) but because a man that smiled as much as Hawke (another strange detail) was not a man to be trusted. Hawke didn’t show any sign of being wary of Fenris as such because _what do I have to fear?_ but he had deceptively observant eyes. The days Fenris wandered listlessly around the house, if only because he feared his legs would stop working if he didn’t keep them moving, Hawke returned to make heartier dinners. The next morning, he would say goodbye by telling Fenris to get some rest in a tone that should have felt like a threat or at least get under Fenris’ skin but Fenris would listen because it was not a command in the name of control but an instruction made in care. It did not make it any less dangerous.

But it was a simple life Hawke led, to get up, work and then rest. Fenris did not have the words, at least not ones Hawke would understand, to explain how no matter how many times his head hit a pillow, it felt like its softness only existed to smother him.

Instead Fenris had, after convincing Hawke to take back his own bed, accepted being armed every night since with more blankets and pillows than the day before to take to the sofa. Hawke had retrieved logs from the shed where he stored them among assorted junk and taught Fenris how to light the fireplace, laying out coal and ripping pages from the newspaper and prompting the flame to catch and spread with a poker. For a careless man, Hawke was careful about this, double-checking the fireguard as if Fenris was a child. Fenris didn’t comment on it, not when he was a man who could not raise his chin to face the showerhead. And a small part of him was comforted that Hawke did not fear him but he feared something. Like falling asleep on the couch, it was a welcome reminder of the humanity of the other man.

Fires had to be fed. Hawke had warned that it would go out in the night and showed him how to keep it burning and then, how to light it again. And still it surprised Fenris, like the shock of an ice-bath, to go to sleep warm and wake, fitful, and cold. The slightly small sofa was not so much the problem (because Fenris had slept in far, far worse) but he found the excess of pillows overwhelming. Fenris threw them to the floor to feel the hard but familiar arm of the sofa to slot his neck against. He closed his eyes but not before he realised that the glow in the fireplace was gone.

At first, Fenris left it be, even if it meant he woke with his bones aching, curling, and Hawke on his knees in front of the fireplace, prodding a new life into the embers easily, like they hungered for his touch alone. But Hawke left a stack of newspapers on the armchair where nothing else sat and eventually, Fenris tried his hand at it, waking before the sun and trying to invite it into the room. He scrunched up the faces of the people on the newspaper with a hard fist and struck a match, letting the flame lick the tip of his thumb before he threw it in. Hawke had made it look easy and found him, hours later, sitting cross-legged in front of it and glaring at the smoke. He bent at the waist to peer sleepily over Fenris’ shoulder.

Mildly, he said, “Oh, you made the balls too tight.”

Soon, it would be warm enough that they wouldn’t need to light the fire, Hawke reassured him but Fenris was determined to keep the flame burning. It was worth it when Hawke had come down this morning, saw the fire already lit and he grinned in that way that Fenris was learning meant _pride_. Hawke felt a warped sense of responsibility for many things and that made Fenris feel embarrassed too. And he felt it often at the face of the heart of Hawke’s emotions, so full, so filling, Fenris did not know where to put them, did not know how to digest them and yet he ate them up, like the food on his plate. Better than to face them, if nothing else.

Fenris looked down at the crumbs that remained now. Hawke was right, Fenris was better (not _well_ but better, ill-rested but not bed-ridden) and yet, Fenris lingered on the word ‘look.’ Hawke looked at him leisurely, as he looked at everything, a man who acted as if he had all the time in the world, and more than once he had rushed out in the morning because someone was threatening him from a distance, an engine revving menacingly. Fenris was glad to no longer have to sleep with his reflection so close but that didn’t mean he didn’t see himself, on the back of the spoon that Hawke handed him for the soup they had dinner the evening before or reflected in Hawke’s eyes, always open.

Hawke looked at him now, a smile in them. Once again, Fenris found himself wondering about the others Hawke had taken in and if they were always timely and agreeable or simply people with nowhere else to go, resigned to a few months of work as a farmhand because work was work. Would anyone stay otherwise?

And yet Hawke did not need to be so kind, so giving. Fenris considered his response. _I feel well — and it is all thanks to you_. For some reason, he felt almost shy about voicing it. He owed Hawke his life. A _thank you_ felt trite and silly but only as silly as Fenris telling himself he was staying to pay the man back, not because the meals were readily shared and the living room warmer than anywhere else Fenris had laid his head all winter, even when the fire went out and the pillows made him dream he was still dying. He could not voice what he could do but he could prove his worth.

That much, in his character, had not changed.

Fenris thought Hawke could see it, the emotion in his eyes where mouths were unwilling and unpracticed. His expression shifted, tilted, only slightly but enough to go from warm to understanding. As absurd as he was, he was also more versed in emotions than Fenris had any hope to be. He enjoyed the silence and Hawke let him.

In it, they heard it. Faraway, an engine. It was not like the ones Fenris had grown accustomed to. Instead of a rumble, it was quiet, mundane. It felt out of place. It was odd to Fenris for him to know what out of place even meant in this odder still house. He looked at Hawke who rose from his seat when the sound crept closer and dumped their dishes in the sink absentmindedly when it cut off.

Fenris stood too, when Hawke headed towards the door, even though no knock came. He followed, lingering in the hallway, and then regretted it. His bag was close, propped under the coat pegs, but his feet were bare. If he had stayed in the kitchen, the backdoor always had a key in it. The farm was hard to creep up on in a car but a man on foot could make a clean getaway, if he wasn’t afraid of getting lost in the maze of land, if he was more afraid of what could come knocking.

Hawke yanked open the door just as the woman on the other side had raised her fist to knock. She didn’t even blink. Her smile was knowing. “Hello, Hawke.”

“Aveline.” Hawke sounded positively delighted. He opened his arms to her with warmness. Most people must have been engulfed in Hawke’s hugs but Aveline was a straight-backed woman, tall with a long, angular face and an unwavering gaze. She rubbed his back like he was a child as he said, “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s been a week.”

“It’s been a long week.” Hawke pulled back with an offended face. “You didn’t miss me? I’m hurt.”

“I have a job,” she pointed out wryly. Fenris could not work out what it was that could be. Her red hair was pulled back neatly at the base of her neck, secured with a thin headband across her forehead. She wore little make-up around green eyes, though some on her lips to darken them, pressing them together as she tried not to smile. She was dressed in a simple button-up shirt and black trousers under her winter coat but wore rubber boots, not unlike Hawke, though they told the story that she had donned them in preparation for the visit and not because she was another labourer. Her voice was diplomatic, the kind that was used to reasoning with others.

Or maybe just Hawke. 

He acted as if she hadn’t spoken, clutching his chest. “Heartbroken, even.”

Aveline looked beyond him, spotting Fenris. And then she looked at him from head to toe with an analytical gaze that reminded Fenris of Anders. Someone who looked at Fenris not as a person but a piece of work. Whatever she did for a living, there was a reason she had been trusted with the key to Hawke’s spare bedroom. Fenris’ toes curled into the carpet. One after the other, he kept making rookie mistakes in Hawke’s company.

Hawke looked between them. “Fenris, this is Aveline. Aveline, Fenris. Fenris here will be working on the farm soon.”

This surprised Aveline. She raised her eyebrows at Hawke but then, surprising Fenris in turn, extended her hand. Fenris moved to take it, unable to avoid brushing against Hawke who held the door open with his arm easily draped over the top, wrist, where a constant red band circled, lax and hand dangling. Behind Aveline, a sleek little black car was parked by Hawke’s truck which was a battered and faded red thing. Beyond them, fields as far as the eye could see and fog upcoming.

Aveline’s grip was firm but not unthreatening, the practiced touch of a person used to shaking hands. “Nice to meet you. Hawke nursed you back to health, I presume?”

Hawke missed the sarcasm in her question. “I should have got one of those outfits,” he said wistfully.

Fenris shook his head and the image away. “He’s been... a good host.”

Hawke looked delighted by the compliment. Fenris reconsidered his earlier stance on voicing his thanks out loud.

Aveline hummed. “I can believe that.” She was not passing judgement. She gave Hawke a look that was short but fond. Then, she asked, “So you’re staying?”

Fenris shrugged like it didn’t make a difference if he did or didn’t. He didn’t know what answer she wanted. Aveline looked between him and Hawke and then nodded. When she smiled apologetically, Fenris wondered how much the key in her pocket weighed. She said, “If you don’t mind.”

It was not a question. Fenris stepped back. Hawke didn’t move. Aveline gave him a pointed look. “Hawke, a word?”

Hawke, who in the little time Fenris had known him had done nothing but wear his heart on his sleeve, looked at Aveline in a way Fenris could not truly understand. Like a conversation passing between adults and he was a child. Even now, Fenris found himself in the hands of men who spoke for him.

But then Hawke shrugged and said easily, “Sure. I was going to suggest a walk anyway. Fenris has been cooped up for long enough.” He gave Aveline a grin Fenris supposed Hawke thought was charming. “I think his chances of slipping and dying will be less, especially with you here, Aveline.”

“I will not fall,” Fenris said, almost automatically. Hawke shrugged as if to say _still_ , drawing attention to his shoulders and arms.

Fenris looked away, at Aveline who was staring back at him. It was almost in solidarity. They both knew Fenris didn’t need to hear the word she had to say. In that moment, Fenris didn’t think she would be deliberately cruel. He remembered Hawke saying an intervention had been staged and he had laughed, driven to hysterics by everything that had brought him here. Now, he wondered if he had jumped the gun on his assessment of Hawke.

But then again, if this was a hostage situation, it was the oddest one Fenris had been, by far. Hawke didn’t need to waste so much food on him.

Aveline conceded with a quiet sigh and Hawke looked pleased, always pleased. He opened the door further to let Aveline in and turned to look down. It took a minute for Fenris to realise Hawke was staring at his _feet_.

Hawke looked up and said, “My boots will be too big.”

“Your boots?”

Hawke was already moving past him, towards the stairs but not up them. Under them, there was a closet that had somehow missed Fenris’ notice in his explorations. Hawke squatted to see into it, throwing shoes over his shoulder carelessly. Fenris looked at Aveline, as if she could provide an answer, but she stood with her arms across her chest, unperturbed. 

Fenris found his voice, creeping closer. “I have boots.”

“Yeah but not—” Hawke spoke into the darkness of the closet, squinting. Then he pulled out a pair of rubber boots indistinguishable from the dozen he had already thrown out. He looked between them and Fenris with an almost comical focus and decreed, “These should fit.” Then, finally, an explanation, “It rained a little last night. You don’t want to fall.” There was a pause as Hawke moved to rise to his knees and his grin was devilish, looking up at Fenris. “Again.”

This time, Fenris chose to say nothing. He took the boots from Hawke, noting that they were the same make and colour as the ones Hawke usually wore but smaller, though not small, like Fenris himself. It was just that everything Hawke owned was massive, in more than one direction.

Fenris tried not to think about it and leant down to put the boots on, aware of Hawke and Aveline stood watching. When he stood again at full height, he leant on one foot and then the other. The boots were a little tight but his feet were better. When he looked at Hawke, Hawke looked back at him in satisfaction. Fenris didn’t need to say a word. It was comforting and terrifying.

It was too late. Fenris’ expression slipped into something ungiving but Hawke still looked pleased as he said, “Good thing Bethany has huge feet.”

Aveline snorted at that. “I’ll tell her you said that.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with having big feet,” Hawke protested, donning his own boots. The size of them was an unsaid emphasis. “You know what they say about people with big feet.” 

Fenris focused on putting on his jacket and sidestepping Hawke as the other man reached for his coat. Then Hawke bent down where the bundle of Fenris’ gloves had fallen from his jacket pocket and threw them up. Fenris caught them and nodded gratefully.

“Small brain?” Aveline was saying, talking with the tiredness that an adult would when conversing with a particularly silly child.

“Nope.” Hawke marched past them to the door once more and opened it. Then he turned to grin at Aveline and Fenris. “Big heart!”

They looked at each other again and said nothing, letting themselves be ushered through the doorway.

Outside, it was cold but not enough to turn the wetness on the grass into ice. It was not raining but everything felt distinctly wet, the mud that squelched unpleasantly under Fenris’ borrowed boots and the wind on his face. Fenris licked his lips, feeling the dry cracks on them in contrast. Since his arrival, Fenris hadn’t gone further than Hawke’s backyard, where he watched Hawke cut up more firewood or coax Champ out to do his business or tire him out, recognising that Hawke was inventing reasons to coax Fenris out too when the log shed overflowed. It might not have been a lie, Hawke insisting on Fenris to walk with them. _You look better_. Not well but well enough to take a walk, it seemed.

Now Fenris could see the outside he saw the house was made up of the same grey stone that appeared inside but only now did Fenris notice that the front door was actually more a side door, opening up from a protruding section at the end of the house that may have been made in afterthought, consisting mostly of windows that warned that this was private property. There was no path so much as there was land that had been imprinted by car wheels and the soles of boots coming and going. To the side, a front garden drawn by hedges, leaves determined to grow from the bones of nature every season. A few ignored plant pots were dotted about alongside soiled squares where flowers would grow later in the year. A small outdoor table and some chairs occupied a corner and a tiny path made of some stones, dark with rain, peeked through the grass, leading to the side of the house where the grass connected to the backyard. Fenris knew what it looked like from memory now, empty planters and a small greenhouse and assorted sheds for tools and logs. Like the yard, the front was littered with random things, crates and machinery and plastic. Inside and out, Hawke had clutter.

On the other side of the house, there were more buildings, barns and sheds. More dotted the fields which Hawke looked out at as he came to stand at Fenris’ side, rubbing his palms together. The fog made everything look more grey than white, like the rain clouds were descending upon them. They skimmed the top of the buildings in the distance but had not yet settled, the day still young and the greying sun stubborn. By the evening, the fields would succumb to the haze, dancing tendrils of fog haunting the land like ghosts.

Hawke clapped his hands suddenly, a loud noise in the quiet. “So where do we start?”

“Save the tour.” Aveline came to stand at his other side. “I need to get back.”

“You don’t want to see the sheep? The cows? The ducks?” Hawke paused for effect and then gasped. “Not even the _ducks_?”

Aveline didn’t even blink. “Not even the ducks, Hawke. I want the office to not burn down in my absence.”

Hawke _tsk_ ed, understanding the implication in Aveline’s dry tone. “You people have got to stop leaving Merrill in charge.”

This was not Fenris’ first time hearing this conversation, recalling Anders saying the name to similar effect. Whoever Merrill was, she was very helpful, for better or for worse.

From Aveline’s expression, it looked decidedly _worse_ . “I did not leave her _in charge_ but she said she’d keep watch, just in case. I’m hoping no one calls. Last time, she almost got car insurance for every citizen in Kirkwall, or so she believed. The less time we waste, the better.”

“Fine, fine.” Hawke threw up his hands in defeat and began walking out, past the cars and front garden and onto where the bare land met a path that had been drawn into the grass, connecting to the rest of the fields. He turned on his heels and gestured grandly to the left. “To Bethany, then. You can’t say no to Bethany.”

“I suppose not.” Aveline sighed but with a small smile. She followed Hawke and they waited for Fenris.

Fenris had put on his gloves but he still shoved his hands into his pockets as he trailed after them. He had not forgotten how to walk as he feared, one step in front of the other, but he walked behind them, slowed by his interest in the surroundings.

The fields were empty of any of the animals Hawke had promised and instead they passed odd bits and bobs, tires in varied sizes and piles of wood that were sometimes manufactured crates and other times merely fallen branches from the nearby trees. The path they followed was caged by thin lines of wood too, dipping and rising with the uneven ground and shoddy workmanship, gates that Hawke made sure to close behind him. As Hawke’s house disappeared behind them, Fenris tried to remember the way but the indents in the ground looked the same wherever he stood, sinking into the mud. It was not hard for Fenris to believe what Hawke had said, about getting lost out here. He was glad he hadn’t left that first night for more reasons than one but he was grateful now to follow Hawke, who marched ahead confidently, as if he could see beyond the fields. Aveline walked at his side with a different kind of sureness, a trust that spoke of years of comradery. She almost seemed too straight-laced to be a friend of Hawke’s and yet they spoke easily, the mention of Bethany prompting Aveline to ask of her health, having not seen her in a while, not even in passing on her drive here. Hawke reminded her that it was early and she said _only by Hawke family standards_.

It was along the way that they found a young woman sat in a stationary tractor. It looked as large as she did small in it, wearing a big coat. Her head was ducked, dark hair short but loose, shadowing her face. When Hawke called out, “Bethany,” she looked up in relief. It was the smiling girl from the photos.

“Perfect timing,” she said as she jumped down from her seat with easy grace. Every step Fenris took felt like it got stuck in the mud here but Bethany did not stumble, despite the slightness of her frame. Hawke had hurried ahead and reached her with his arms outstretched but she merely held her hand out with what looked like a little string dangling between her forefinger and thumb. “My hair tie snapped. I didn’t want to drive back to get one.”

Hawke took it and fiddled, attempting to knot the small string between his large fingers. Both siblings were squinting hard at the operation until they admitted defeat, hopeless, until Aveline and Fenris neared and they both raised their heads at the same time. They looked expectantly at Aveline.

“Do I look like the sort of woman who carries spares?” Aveline said with a roll of her eyes. She easily dodged Hawke’s attempt at flicking her with the broken tie.

“Nothing wrong with that kind of woman.” Bethany pouted. “Isabela would be handy right about now.”

At the word ‘handy,’ Hawke looked down at his own and then, with a touch of awe, as if surprised by his cleverness, he said, “Bethany, I have an idea.”

Bethany peered at her brother suspiciously but pocketed the broken string and let Hawke steer her to stand in front of him. Then he untied the red band off his wrist, a ribbon of fabric that Fenris had thought, until that moment, was as much part of Hawke as the swipe of reddened skin across his nose. Hawke raised his hands to Bethany’s hair. When she tried to turn back to look, he trapped her head between his palms with exaggerated silliness.

Bethany laughed in protest. “Hawke! Let go!”

“Well, hold still. Are you this squirmish when Isabela cuts your hair?”

“You can’t blame me.” Her smile was in full view of Fenris and Aveline. The family resemblance was most apparent when she grinned to tease. “Isabela smells far nicer, for starters.”

Hawke flicked Bethany’s ear but only lightly. Closer now, Fenris remarked on both the similarities between her and her brother and the distinction between them. Bethany had the same strong jaw and nose with skin that seemed to colour just as easy. She flushed now when she caught Fenris staring because she was staring back at him, curious but shy. She closed her eyes but not before Fenris noted that she had Hawke's eyes too, their father's eyes. Golden. The sun set in them.

She leant her head back and Fenris was struck by the smallness of it, though everything seemed small in Hawke’s hands. Her hair, which Hawke carded his fingers through, was less curly than her brother’s, though he still brushed carefully as if afraid to tug at tangles. Though it was not hard to imagine Hawke pulling pigtails as a child, it was just as easy to envision the younger versions of the siblings doing this too, Hawke’s hands moving in a way that denoted familiarity. Fenris was always surprised by Hawke’s capacity for gentleness. 

Eyes still closed, Bethany spoke. “What brings you out here anyway, Aveline?”

“Business,” Aveline replied.

“Pleasure,” Hawke said at the same time, over Bethany’s head. It looked like Bethany elbowed him. He muttered something about her ruining his precious handiwork.

Aveline ignored Hawke but glanced at Fenris even when she answered Bethany. “Hawke called about the spare key.”

This made Bethany open her eyes and they were bright where Hawke's were blinding, the difference between the sun rising and setting. She looked at Fenris. “Fenris is staying?”

It was weird to hear her say his name. Again, Fenris felt that nagging absence of memory. She had been there when he was prone. It was her idea to check his wallet, concerned for his health, and Fenris had no way of knowing if she had looked as Hawke did when he was reminded of the band around his wrist, impressed by her own ideas.

Still, Fenris could not fault her. He had seen photos of her with her front teeth missing. And she looked embarrassed as if she had not intended to speak, looking away again just as abruptly. She couldn’t have been that much younger than any of them but there was an innocence to her that Fenris could not scoff at. Kindness ran in the family, it seemed.

There was a silence where Fenris forgot he was being asked a question and Hawke didn’t speak for him. This, Fenris appreciated, to know that he would not always be spoken about as if he were not there, a man in control of his own person. It was a small thing, like the pause that felt like an opening.

Fenris took it. “So I’ve heard,” he said, a touch dryly.

Bethany smiled. It was a truce of sorts.

“There,” Hawke said, finishing tying the red band into Bethany’s hair. He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “All done. Doesn’t she look pretty?”

Aveline hummed an assent. When Hawke waited pointedly for Fenris to answer, he nodded too, unsurely but it was good enough. Bethany positively beamed. Both Hawke siblings were pleased easily by simple compliments.

Something about the moment made Aveline look between the three of them. Then, she sighed and dug into her pockets. She took out a key, unremarkable except for what it meant.

Fenris and Hawke both blinked at it. Hawke voiced his (their) thoughts. “That’s all it took?”

Aveline gave him a hard look. “Don’t make me regret it.” She looked at Fenris then too. “Both of you.”

Hawke snatched the key from her fingers greedily before she could change her mind or he made her change hers without even trying.

Aveline, at least, looked glad to be rid of it. “Well, now that’s out of the way.”

“You’re heading back? Already?” Bethany frowned. “But you just got here.”

Hawke tilted his head towards his sister to stage whisper, “She left Merrill in her office.”

“Ah.”

Aveline pressed the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “You should know, Hawke, that Varric is back in town.”

“He is?” Hawke broke out into a grin. “And he didn’t even call ahead. What a sneak.”

“Oh, he did.” Aveline looked tired. She was a proud woman. Whatever she did as a day job, Fenris doubted she was paid to deliver messages to Hawke. “You won’t pick up your phone, you unplugged your landline and you don’t check your emails.”

Hawke waved a dismissive hand. “Who sends emails these days?”

“People trying to get in contact with a man who lives in the middle of nowhere with no network signal.”

“He sounds cool. Do you think he’s single?”

Aveline ignored him. She was very good at it. Hawke was the oldest sibling but Aveline was like an older sister. “I just said I’d pass along the invite. He could have taken his chances. No house guest has ever kept Hawke from the Hanged Man on a Friday night.”

She said it like it wasn’t anything to be proud of and Hawke smiled like it was. “The locals would miss me.”

“The ones that don’t want to kill you for swindling them.” Aveline shook her head but she was trying not to smile at the thought ( _of someone killing Hawke, perhaps?_ Fenris thought.) “I don’t know who’s worse: you or Varric.”

“Hey.” Hawke put his hands on his hips. “I’m obviously worse. I work very hard for that title.”

“Just keep your dealings above the table, Hawke, and then we won’t have trouble.”

“Why, I would _never—_ ”

“I’ll get Carver to take us,” Bethany interrupted. “Varric owes me a drink and Carver will want to be sober if he stands any chance of redeeming himself after _last_ year.”

Aveline and Hawke were distracted by the memory. It made them both smile and Bethany looked relieved that she had placated them, sharing the moment with Fenris who offered her a small smile for her troubles.

Then, Bethany gave Aveline a prod on the arm. “Does this mean we’ll see you at the Hanged Man too, Aveline? You wouldn’t have come all this way if you didn’t plan to join yourself, right?”

Aveline rolled her eyes. “Of course. Who else will make sure Hawke actually leaves at closing time?”

“You take your job too seriously,” Hawke said and Fenris stilled, realising himself what Aveline did. No one noticed.

“Someone around here has to.”

Or maybe someone did. Bethany looked at Fenris again, a little shy and hopeful. “And you, Fenris?”

It took him a moment to remember what they had been talking about and then another for Fenris to realise it was an invitation. It had been a long time since he had been invited to anything.

For some reason, he looked at Hawke who shrugged with an easy smile. “Cons: you’ll see me drunk. Pros: you’ll see me drunk.”

Fenris realised, then, he must have looked at Hawke in permission, a habit he had thought he had broken. But Hawke did not entertain the idea. It was hard to imagine Hawke holding even the leash of his own dog. He was not interested in control. The unseen droplets in the air made the curls of his hair more pronounced, darker, wilder. It was becoming very apparent that all those around Hawke sought to tame him instead. Fenris was unbound in his company.

They were all waiting for an answer. Fenris gave the illusion of one. “A tempting offer.”

Bethany looked unsure and Aveline between them but Hawke grinned, wide and unashamed. Again, it was answer enough for Hawke.


	4. Chapter 4

Hawke offered to lend a shirt to Fenris.

Fenris declined. Based on what he’d seen of Hawke’s wardrobe, he owned very little that wasn’t striped vertically and horizontally and based on what _Hawke_ had seen of Fenris’, he knew Fenris owned very little altogether. As the week had come to a close, Fenris had decided to do the laundry, his own because he did not want Hawke to go through his things and Hawke’s because it was wasteful to let only a few lonely shirts whirl around the washing machine. When done, he spread their things across the clothes horse in the upper floor landing which never seemed to be retracted and avoided the ironing board that was always put away. Fenris felt compelled to do _something_ , restless for he had not rested for so long in so long, but he drew the line at ironing. He had no desire to perform domesticity for Hawke.

Still, Hawke had thanked him airily when he saw his washing basket empty. As they got ready to leave for the bar, he had peeled off his shirt in the hallway and plucked up a plain black T-shirt from where it had been drying to pull it on. Fenris ignored the flash of skin (so much of it, no less) and reached for a shirt of his own, almost blindly.

“Hey,” Hawke said as he ruffled his own curls, his other hand raised to point to the shirt in Fenris’ fingertips, “we’ll match.”

In Fenris’ defense, he would have changed his shirt choice if most of his clothes weren’t black. He retreated to the bathroom to change, washing his face and combing at his own hair. He was not worried about meeting Hawke’s friends but now the time was here, Fenris didn’t think he wanted to. He had stayed to pay off a debt that Hawke would never ask him to and then earn enough cash to send him on his way. It was not within his interests to meet more of Hawke’s family and friends or learn anymore about the man than he already had.

It was starting to feel like everything he had learnt about Hawke had been against his will.

Hawke knocked, asking if he was ready to head off, and Fenris wandered out, rolling down his sleeves. Not fast enough because Hawke saw the tattoos there but when he raised his gaze to Fenris’, Hawke didn’t look guilty for his curiosity. Like all his emotions, he wore it plain and shrugged it off when Fenris’ shirt covered his wrists once more. He didn’t ask about it. He had forgone his work coat to put on a black leather jacket lined with white fur that brought a surprising amount of colour to his cheeks. As he cajoled Champ towards the doorway, Fenris found a lighter jacket of his own, a denim one to pull over himself. When he followed the dog and his owner out front, Hawke glanced back and kept looking at the change. Thankfully, Hawke said nothing – he just smiled.

Hawke always seemed to be smiling.

They heard the car, of course, before they saw it, Champ barking in announcement in case they hadn’t. The dark made the headlights all the more blinding but Hawke walked through them, casting shadows that swayed with the wind in the trees. When Fenris squinted, he could see a mundane car, not as clean as Aveline’s but unlike the tractors Fenris had grown accustomed to. At the driver’s seat there was the clean-shaven man from the photos, still frowning. Bethany waved from the passenger seat as Hawke coaxed Champ into the back with him, greeting his siblings with, “Took you long enough.”

Fenris let himself in on the other side and he didn’t know if the car was small or if Hawke and Champ were just too large for it, like doorways and sofas. Consequently, Fenris had to accept the dog’s head on his lap. He didn’t have extensive experience of dogs but Champ was a likeable creature, easily pleased much like his owner. When Fenris awarded Champ with a hesitant scratch behind his ears, Hawke grinned like they were his own.

Hawke’s brother watched them from the rearview mirror. As giving Hawke was with his smiles, his brother was the opposite. _Carver_ , Fenris recalled, from earlier conversations. He frowned now as he snapped back, “What am I, your chauffeur?”

“Of course not,” Hawke said easily. “I wouldn’t pay for such appalling service.”

“Don’t be a tit.” Carver turned his head to glare fully at Hawke. “Besides, you could have mentioned the massive fuck off branch on the road up your way. Or even moved it.”

Hawke was making his dog’s hind paws do a dance. “Oh, that twig?”

“Forget it.” Carver returned his focus to the car, reversing out of Hawke’s drive. “But I’m not waiting for you tonight. I leave when I leave. You can walk back roaring drunk if you wanna stay late.”

Hawke saluted lazily in answer then used the passenger seat to propel himself forward to address his sister. “Hi, Bethany.”

She turned to smile. She had changed into a pretty top and jeans that weren’t covered in mud. Her face had a touch of makeup but her hair was still tied up in red. “Hi, brother. Fenris. You both look nice.”

Fenris inclined his head in acknowledgement but Hawke thanked her for the both of them. Carver’s gaze flickered in the mirror once more but he was not quick, looking away from Fenris too late as if he didn’t expect Fenris to return his gaze so squarely. Unlike the other two Hawke siblings, Carver’s eyes were shockingly blue, bright even in the dark of the car in the wilderness, reflecting the moon and little else. He drove carefully, snapping when Hawke tried to convince him to go this way and that, it’s quicker, they could even time it, drinks on Hawke if he was wrong (which he insisted he wasn’t.) Carver refused, jaw set, and Bethany shushed her brothers, fiddling with the radio as they left the farmland behind. There was never any signal on the farm, she told Fenris.

They had been driving in the quiet of a late night radio humming when Carver spoke suddenly. “Well, now he’s awake, can I ask about the tattoos?”

“Carver!” Bethany reached out to hit her brother’s arm. It was bare and large. That much, it seemed, ran in the family.

“What?” He peered through the mirror yet again but it wasn’t like he was seeing Fenris. Fenris could have not been there at all. “You’re not curious?”

“You’re being rude!”

“I’m not! People ask about tattoos. They asked about mine–”

There was a collective groan. “No one wants to hear about your tattoo!”

“Who asked?” Hawke chimed in. “What’re their names? Do they go to a different school?”

Carver let out a frustrated breath, lifting a hand from the wheel to gesture wildly. “They go up to his chin! People must ask about it.”

Hawke leant across Champ’s prone body to stage-whisper to Fenris, “Sorry about Carver. He was dropped on the head as a baby.”

“I was not!”

“Well, you certainly act it.” Bethany shook her head and shot Fenris an apologetic glance, more genuine than Hawke who was having far too much fun to be embarrassed.

“You both realise I’m your lift to the pub, don’t you? I could stop and make you get out here.” Carver paused, as if seriously considering the option himself. “Then it’d just be me and Fenris and we could compare tattoos.”

Fenris could not think of anything he wanted less.

“Please don’t,” he said.

Hawke and Bethany laughed. Carver frowned so hard, it was a wonder his face was not already stuck that way. He drove the rest of the way in silence and in it, Hawke engaged in a full-blown conversation with Champ. Bethany patted Carver’s arm and gave him a smile that said more than she could with an open mouth. Carver relaxed, only a little but still.

Fenris had struggled to envision what kind of older brother Hawke was but it made sense now. In a lot of ways, he was a brother like he was a host. Combing through his sister’s hair with gentle fingers and giving his brother hell over anything he said. Silly and caring. Nothing escaped him, not a word or a stray strand caught between folds of ribbon.

Fenris looked at him when they passed headlights and Hawke looked back in the dark. The man wore his feelings like clothes and yet Fenris felt as he had in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, seeing Hawke wrapped in very little. There was so much about Hawke that Fenris did not know.

Though when Hawke made Champ reply to him in a deep voice, cradling the lower jaw of the dog with an unafraid hand, Fenris feared he was possibly giving the man more credit than he deserved.

Despite the additions of the occasional streetlamp and roads made of something more than mud, grass and straw, the way to the nearest village did not illuminate much, at mercy of the fog that had finally settled. It thinned as they passed fields but the first sight of civilization inspired very little. The buildings were old and compact and the streets bare, even though it was a Friday night. As Carver parked his car (abruptly, shutting up the argument between the siblings on where he should park) and they all tumbled out, Champ’s barks were loud on the tiny highstreet. It felt, to Fenris, like he had been transported to another time, where shop signs were still painted in cursive and actual bells rang when their doors opened.

“Oh,” Bethany said suddenly and she untied the ribbon in her hair. She rearranged her hair with self-conscious fingers, her other hand extending the strip of red to Hawke. “Here.”

Hawke took the ribbon from her and returned it to his wrist. His wrist was thick, as muscular as the rest of him, and so it only wrapped around it less than a handful of times. He did so easily, a motion as old as their surroundings. When he was done, he gestured for Fenris to follow Bethany and Carver, Champ at their heels.

The Hanged Man was a thin old building burrowed between a shut post office and a house that had been split into apartments, based on the state of the tiny balconies that curved out from the front, some littered with plant pots and another with nothing more than cigarette stubs in the ashtray on the small circular table stood there. The pub itself was a shorter building, consisting of one or two floors at most, with a few tables stationed outside that Fenris saw, as they neared, some smokers occupied, stood under a sign that said ‘The anged Man’ because the ‘H’ was missing. Noise floated from the gap under the door, music and conversation. Carver and Bethany weaved Champ through the people that greeted them all, every other person bending or squatting to ruffle Champ’s fur. A lot of them looked out to where Hawke stood and waved or shouted a greeting. Hawke was anticipated.

But he waited with Fenris, following his gaze. “Someone stole the ‘H,’” he explained.

Appearances could be deceiving and the village of Kirkwall was no exception. Things happened here and those who lived here had chosen to accept it, Hawke included, with his unmoving smile. Fenris waited for him to admit that he had been the one to steal it but he didn’t.

Fenris let Hawke lead them in.

The inside of the Hanged Man was nothing Fenris hadn’t seen before. The walls and ceiling were lined with dark wood that matched the tables and chairs and the maroon paint made the space feel dingy, unhelped by the unflattering yellow lighting. Still, it was not as small as he had thought it would be, making up in length what it lacked in width, with stairs winding up to a balcony that made way for more seating. It did not make its colouring any more appealing. What little brightness there was came from condiments bottles strewn across random tables in no particular order or pattern but the red floral carpet was darkened, as were the fabric lining of the seats, with the kind of stains that could not be washed out. Just like no one had fixed the sign outside, the interior was a snapshot in time, unchanged except for its occupants and even then, Fenris was an anomaly. It was the kind of place that saw generations of the same families, people whose grandparents had drank and danced here too. And the jukebox needed to be hit into working.

It felt smaller because it was also very, very full. The noise of an entire village had gathered here, tables pushed together and drinks spilling in cheers. The volume of it all was almost overwhelming after a week spent on the quiet of Hawke’s farm, even when Hawke himself was not a quiet man. Bars were hardly unfamiliar to Fenris – they were a good place to find work or a word – but they were for passing through, never settling. He couldn’t remember the last time he had drank with others in the name of _fun_.

Just as they had with his siblings and his dog, people stopped to greet Hawke, asking him if he knew Varric was here and if he can save a game for him later or sometimes they just peered curiously past him at where Fenris stood, unhiding but unspeaking. Hawke didn’t see it as important to introduce him but there was a whisper carried from mouth to mouth and it was Fenris’ name. At the bar, Bethany and Carver were talking to Anders who had noticed them arrive and looked back at Fenris with a steady gaze. Word always travelled fast in small towns.

Fenris regretted his decision on staying now, more than ever.

Hawke was listening too. He tilted his head as if to focus, the strain of hearing dozens of conversations. He was trying to find someone and when he did, he turned, following the sound of one voice that had gathered a small crowd, by some slot machines that didn’t look like they worked. Fenris heard it too but could see no one, even when the voice, deep and charismatic, carried easily over the heads of listeners with practiced ease.

“And so there he was, covered in pig shit, facing down a dozen– no, at least _two_ dozen of those ruthless motherfuckers and–”

“Not this one,” Hawke murmured, shaking his head. Then, he parted the crowd like Moses did the Red Sea. Louder, he said, “It wasn’t pig shit. It was mud.”

The unseen storyteller became visible. He was surprisingly short but stocky, with a thick chest full of sandy hair that was all anyone could focus on first on account of just how low his shirt was unbuttoned, followed by the circular necklace that hung there. The hair on his actual head was the same colour, too long to leave down and too short to tie back entirely. His face was barely clean-shaven and his ears were decorated with a number of gold hoops. Not entirely unlike Hawke, there was a red mark across the bridge of his nose but it was an obvious scar.

When the man grinned at Hawke, it was like a wink. “You know pigs.”

“They’re actually very smart?”

“They shit where they sleep.”

Hawke shrugged as if to say _who hasn’t?_ The man shook his head and waved off the crowd that greeted and bidded Hawke farewell with harmless guilt as he made his way through the gap Hawke had made. “We’ll have to finish this when Hawke here is too drunk to criticise my storytelling. So about– three drinks.”

“Hey, now,” Hawke protested. “It depends on the drink.”

“Fine, fine. Four drinks.”

Hawke gasped, fluttering his lashes. “Why, Varric, you _shouldn’t_ have. Your generosity holds no bounds.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty, Hawke.”

“Can I get that on record?”

“You can try.”

The difference in height didn’t stop Hawke from swooping down to hug Varric with a surprising amount of fierceness. Varric laughed, patting his shoulder, and then looked at Fenris over it.

“And I see you brought company. Blondie wasn’t kidding,” he said as they separated. His eyebrows were raised, ever so slightly. He extended his hand. “Varric Tethras. If you've heard of me, pretend you haven't. Makes things easier for the both of us.”

The name was familiar but Fenris couldn’t think of from where, not when around them the bar seemed to only get louder with every passing minute. “Fenris.”

Hawke popped up between them, as if afraid he would be forgotten. “There’s no point telling him your name. He won’t call you it.” When Fenris looked at him in question, Hawke added, “He likes nicknames.”

“He calls you Hawke,” Fenris pointed out but unsurely.

“I’m special.”

“Technically, also a nickname,” Varric said, though it did not puncture Hawke’s pride which made him stand with his chest out. “Half this pub’s patrons are Hawkes but it was getting sticky trying to refer to them all with some variation of it. Little Hawke didn’t sit well with Junior over there–”

“Nothing sits right with Carver.”

“–and Sunshine was feeling left out.” Varric was untroubled by Fenris’ confusion, leaning in like he was in on the joke too to say, “Besides, if you were called Garrett, wouldn’t you prefer a nickname?”

That, at least, put a pin in Hawke’s chest and it made Fenris’ mouth move on its own accord. “I suppose I would.”

Varric retrieved his drink from a nearby table and lifted it. “And he smiles!”

Wounded pride aside, Hawke smiled back. Fenris forced his face to submission but Varric only laughed. “Have it your way. Hawke, get our new friend a drink, won’t you? I’ll take him over to meet the others.”

Hawke didn’t move. He was not a nervous man, too large, too sure, but he was looking at Fenris as if seeking permission. Varric rolled his eyes and shooed at him. “Oh, quit with the puppy dog eyes. I’ll take good care of him. I’ll even tell him one of the nicer stories about you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Hawke grumbled but then he looked at Fenris squarely. “What do you drink? I can recommend nothing but you get used to the taste.”

“Beer.” After a pause, Fenris added, “Thank you.”

Hawke acted like Fenris had given him the world. He wandered off with only a backwards glance, rewarding a snort from Varric who said nothing, just shook his head at Hawke’s retreating form. It was only a single glance back because instantly, people were grabbing Hawke as he passed, demanding his attention, and Hawke gave it fully, peering at people’s phone screens (too small in Hawke’s massive hands) and bending down to give his ear to whoever beckoned. Eventually, he reached the bar where his siblings and Anders were chatting. Anders was shaking his head too, arms crossed, his work clothes out of place in the grim little pub but Hawke embraced him as easily as he hugged everyone. Champ circled their legs.

Fenris only looked away when Varric cleared his throat pointedly and let him lead the way. They passed tables spilling with people and drinks and Varric was not so much less popular than Hawke but not as easily distracted, waving to some and shaking his head at others. He had the walk of a businessman, a man that needed convincing, whilst Hawke drifted about seeking very little else but pleasure. It did not make them opposites, not in the way one would assume when seeing the inches of height between them. In just a simple interaction, there was years of friendship.

Fenris was wondering if there was anyone in town that was not friends with Hawke.

The table Varric set his drink down on was occupied by two women. The woman who ran a delicate finger across the rim of her drink, something that looked more fruity than alcohol, was pale and small. Her dark hair was short and fine, some of it tucked behind her ears, and she had pointed features, her chin and her nose though her mouth lacked any sharpness. Her large green eyes blinked rapidly at Varric then at Fenris. There was something delicate about her, like the sound of glasses smashing, and yet she didn’t flinch when Fenris looked back at her.

Her companion smiled, however, lips dark with lipstick and skin darker still. Her hair brushed her bare shoulders, pitch black and wavy, the sea on a dark night, barely contained. Where there wasn’t skin, there was jewellery, rings around her ears and her fingers and a necklace layered over her cleavage, gold like her eyes, lined with kohl. Still, she made no noise when she moved, lifting her glass (of something decidedly more alcoholic than her counterpart) to her mouth easily as Varric introduced Fenris.

“Ladies, meet Fenris. Turns out Blondie wasn’t trying his hand at storytelling.” He frowned as if realising something. “Which might mean the one about the cat and the litter was true. Shit.”

The slighter one spoke up, in an almost sing-song voice. “Well, I’m glad Hawke has made a new friend. It’s much more exciting than him being imaginary.” She paused, staring at Fenris thoughtfully. “We did think you’d have more spikes.”

“And shorter. They’re always shorter when involving Hawke over there,” the other woman said, putting her drink down. She regarded Fenris too but her gaze was slow and lingering, like treacle running down from a spoon. “Still, not bad. I’m Isabela.”

When their palms met to shake, her hand moved, just slightly, so the back of Fenris’ was more visible to her and Fenris saw her smile at the tattoos that lined the skin there. Not curiosity but familiarity, the first sign of it Fenris had felt in the strange little village. She squeezed his hand. The warmth of her hand still lingered when she let go, like her gaze, heavy, framed by thick eyelashes. To anyone else, it could have looked like desire. Fenris wasn’t so sure.

The other woman did not mask anything, certainly not her curiosity. When Fenris shook her hand in turn, it was cold from where it had been wrapped around her drink. She stared down at their joint hands with an intense gaze and he almost snatched his hand back until she announced, “Definitely real.”

“Glad we solved that mystery,” Isabela said, not unkindly. She squeezed the woman’s bony shoulder. “This is Merrill.”

Merrill blinked and dropped Fenris’ hand herself. “Oh, I forgot to say that part, didn’t I?” She sounded genuinely upset by this.

Varric patted her arm. “There, there, Daisy. We’ll make sure he never forgets you.”

“No, he’ll remember Daisy and she isn’t me. I’m me.” She looked down at her own hands. “At least I think so. I hope so.”

“Varric,” Isabela said warningly, “you’re not helping.”

Varric shrugged and, as Isabela proceeded to reassure Merrill that she was indeed _very real_ , he gestured for Fenris to take a seat. Fenris did, though he felt all the more awkward without a drink. The clenching and unclenching of his hands did not go unnoticed but Varric didn’t appear to take offense when Fenris moved them out of sight, under the table. Still, Fenris wished he had brought his gloves, as out of place they would have felt in the bar warm with the press of bodies.

“So what’s your story, Broody?”

Fenris frowned at the nickname and realised he was proving Varric right. Then he frowned at the question. “My story?”

“No one winds up on the Hawke farm without one.”

Fenris looked over at the Hawkes taking up the bar, at Hawke himself. He was laughing and they were sitting far enough that Fenris could not hear it exactly but he knew what it sounded like by now. And he could see those around Hawke hearing it, warming, wanting in on the joke.

Varric hummed, drawing Fenris’ attention back to him. “Wrong angle? Let me start again. Do you believe in fate?”

Fenris smiled wryly. “You’re making a story out of this.”

“Just keep it interesting.” Varric winked. “Kirkwall is a small place. It needs storytellers.”

“Honestly, Varric, you’re hopeless,” Isabela sighed, returning to the conversation now Merrill was once again preoccupied with the head of a strawberry floating in her drink. “You want to keep the reader hooked, take Hawke’s shirt off. That’s what the people want.”

“Hopeless, she says,” Varric grumbled. “You can write my next book if you want, Rivaini.”

“Sure, I’ll have a stab at it.” She shrugged. “What is it, the sequel to Hard in Hightown?”

Fenris realised, then, where he had heard Varric’s name before. He had read it on the paperbacks in the shops he ducked into to get batteries or bandages or a bottle of water. Like how Isabela had looked at Fenris’ tattoos, it was a jarring realisation that the outside world was not as foreign to and not so far removed from Kirkwall as he had thought.

Isabela was gesturing with grandeur. “Our hero is back and harder than ever.”

“It’s not that kind of book.”

“It should be. Are there many _tents_ about? Do we go to great _lengths_ to get there?”

Varric snorted. “No but a few swords are sheathed, here and there.”

Isabela raised her glass. “See, I think we could make something great here.”

“Remind me to have my people call your people.”

“Why would there be tents?” Merrill piped up suddenly. “Don’t your characters have houses, Varric?”

Fenris tuned out, strangely wishing he had stayed with Hawke so he could have retrieved his own drink. Hawke was holding two and they sloshed dangerously as he gestured with his full body, arms raised and expression animated even from this distance. He was still talking to Anders – or bickering, it was hard to tell. Though Fenris supposed it mattered little, not when the conversation meant Fenris was forced to sit empty-handed with Hawke’s friends, stiff and sober.

“Oh, don’t worry about them,” Varric said and it took Fenris a moment to realise he was being addressed and then another to realise Varric was referring to Anders and Hawke. Varric tilted his head, considering. “Or, well, worry about it as much as you worry about anyone in this place.”

“Hawke is… popular,” Fenris said and wanted to wince. Every time Fenris talked about Hawke, he hesitated, choosing his words carefully as if the man was delicate in of himself (delicate like his hands tying a ribbon to Bethany’s hair with years of practice, delicate like the way he unbuttoned his shirt on his way up to shower when he came home from work.)

Varric rolled his eyes. “In demand, more like.”

“Ooh, did you hear, Varric,” Merrill said, “Anders said there was a lady in the clinic the other day saying she wanted Hawke to deliver her baby? Do you think he’ll do it?”

“I think, Daisy, we should be worried if he does.”

Isabela grinned. “Now, _that_ I’d like to see.”

“I wouldn’t,” Aveline said as she dropped down in a chair beside them all with a sigh. Her shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and her hairband had been removed but otherwise, she looked no different than she had this morning. “It’s already hard enough getting Anders to keep me in the know on what’s going on in that place. The last thing I need is Hawke juggling babies.”

Varric _tsk_ ed. “Hey, you know the rules, no business at the table.”

“How come that never applies to your stories but always applies to my job?”

“Easy,” Isabela said. “Because your job is _boring_.”

“I’m keeping this village safe.”

Though she wore no uniform, this at least confirmed Fenris’ suspicions. Whatever work Aveline did, it involved the law.

Isabela looked disbelieving. “From what? _Hawke?_ All things considered, he’s probably better at delivering babies than ol’ sourpuss over there. I know who I’d prefer fumbling about between my legs, at any rate.”

“And here I was thinking you didn’t discriminate.”

“Well, don’t get too carried away. I leave all the discriminating to you.”

“You’d think you’d get tired of bickering by this point but no.” Varric shook his head. “If you don’t care about me and poor Daisy then at least think of our new friend.”

Only then did Aveline seem to notice Fenris and Fenris could see she was tired. Whether it was of the day she had or the company she kept, he could not decide. She gave him a nod in greeting and rose to her feet again. “I’m going to get a drink. A strong one.”

“Lucky us.”

Aveline ignored Isabela, leaving as Hawke and Anders arrived, Champ in tow. Even as his beer was set in front of him, Fenris was glad for Champ’s enthusiastic head bump against his thigh and he lifted his hands to pat his head in welcome. Hawke tossed his jacket on the back of the chair next to Fenris and sat down. His own glass was already half empty. His other hand encouraged Champ down until the dog settled between their chairs. On Hawke’s other side, Anders sat down too.

He didn’t greet Fenris so much as comment, “I see you’re not dead.”

It was a clinical observation. Fenris wrapped his hands around his drink, glad for it, and took a sip. He had tasted better, he had tasted worse.

Then, he answered, “That is correct.”

It gave Fenris a childish sense of satisfaction to refuse to thank Anders. There was only one man around this table who had saved his life and it was not the doctor.

“Ooh, the girls are fighting,” Isabela sang into the silence.

Hawke looked between Fenris and Anders and then shook his head firmly. “No fighting, no fighting.” He stretched out his arms, over Anders’ shoulders and against the back of Fenris’ chair, the illusion of touch. Hawke was one to touch easily but to give, not to take. He let Fenris lean back into the chair, his bare arm brushing the back of Fenris’ jacket. “Varric,” he said pointedly.

Varric understood. He raised his glass. “Blondie, thank you for your service. And to our new friend, we’re all drinking to your health.”

“Oh, are we toasting?” Merrill said, holding the thin stem of her cocktail glass with both hands.

“That we are.” Hawke retracted his arm from Anders’ neck to grab his own glass and tilt it in her direction. “And to Merrill...”

“Yes?” she said hopefully.

When Hawke smiled at her, it was fond and honest. “We’re just happy you’re here.”

She beamed.

Isabela raised her glass heartily. “I can drink to that.”

“You can drink to anything,” Anders murmured under his breath.

Isabela heard. “Then I’ll drink twice, jeez.”

At that moment, Bethany and Carver also returned to the table and Carver grumbled that they had missed the toast and Hawke insisted Varric do it again as there was some commotion for Bethany to find a chair, refusing to take Aveline’s. Hawke laughed and across the table, Isabela winked at Fenris as she raised her glass to her mouth again. “Third time’s the charm,” she said. Fenris wasn’t sure what she meant but he felt compelled to drink too.

*

The pub only got fuller as the evening passed and loud enough that Fenris didn’t try to speak over it. He had nothing to say either. It became quickly apparent that everyone had known each other for years, though it was debatable whether they were all friends, though they moved easily, slipping in and out of chairs and conversations, buying owed drinks and stopping only to bask Champ with attention which the dog accepted readily.

Despite Anders’ critical eye, Fenris remained mostly undisturbed, though that may have had more to do with how Anders drank heavily, speaking quickly at anyone who gave him an ear. When he and Aveline started arguing about politics, the rest of the group left them to it.

All Fenris cared about was that no one cared for why he was here, at least not to his face, and he was grateful that Hawke had not lied when he said Kirkwall was _no stranger to strangers_. More than once, Isabela caught his attention to nod at someone across the bar that was watching him but it was never in question, only in interest. She only shrugged when Fenris ignored the invitation.

So Fenris spent most of the evening sitting or standing near the Hawkes. Bethany remained thankfully close by until she smiled apologetically between yawns and asked Carver if they could go home. For reasons unknown to them all, Fenris shook his head at the offer of a lift back to Hawke’s. Carver frowned but that was nothing new. They took Champ with them, however, and the loss of the warm creature was significantly felt.

Fenris wondered if it was the drink. His head felt light but he drank slowly and kept an eye on Hawke who, despite his popularity, eventually sat down and simply stayed there. He spent most of the evening with Varric, listening to the other man spin tales of his year away (he came back to write, much to his publisher’s utter confusion, and Fenris was inclined to agree because Kirkwall hardly felt like a writer’s retreat.)

And Varric was right about one thing, most notable to Fenris: for a man of his size, Hawke got drunk remarkably fast. At first, he only laughed louder and his cheeks got pinker. But after enough drinks piled in front of him, Varric’s most recent forward emptied, he stood to return the favour and swayed, gripping the back of Fenris’ chair to steady himself. When he grinned down at Fenris, not at all self-conscious, Fenris could see sweat had made some tiny curls press to his forehead. He radiated heat.

“Whoopsie,” he said as if it wasn’t the most ridiculous thing to come out of the mouth of a man like him. “Another for you, Fenris?”

He had bought all of Fenris’ drinks, at least.

Hawke didn’t get far before a shout rose above the chatter. A group of men marched towards Hawke, drunkenly yelling about a bet that needed settling. Isabela detached herself from the group she had been chatting with to gesture Fenris towards her and Hawke didn’t notice Fenris leave, distracted by the man who reached Hawke first, grabbing him by the shirt. Varric tried to convince him not to punch Hawke square in the face. It was humbling to see that not everyone in the village liked Hawke. Fenris followed Isabela to the bar.

She bought Fenris a drink but didn’t move away from the bar when she had her own, instead leaning back on the counter, arms spread across the unpleasantly sticky surface like she couldn’t feel it. Fenris wasn’t sure if she did, under all the jewellery running up and down her forearms. Fenris still faced forward, hands circling his stationary drink without touching it and his arms balanced on the counter too, the sleeves of his jacket sparing him of any unpleasantness. They listened to the sound of Varric trying to convince the men into settling this like men, taking on Hawke in a game of cards to the death. A chorus of _you won’t get us this time!_ and _not again!_ came in response and Varric tutted, offering higher stakes and even higher rewards. Apparently, most of the bar was interested in seeing Hawke leave with not even the clothes off his back. There was the scraping of chairs and a lull in some conversations, patrons watching this play out.

Fenris didn’t but he listened so intently his shoulders hunched. It took him a moment to realise Isabela wasn’t looking at the commotion either but at him. He looked back at her and she smiled, a small tilt of her lips that was enough to compel men to grovel at her feet. Fenris didn’t and that only made her smile more.

She nodded at his hands, the visible back of them where the white lines of ink glowed in the dim bar lighting. “Nice tattoos.”

Fenris smiled a little too. She was cat-like, in her eyes and in her games. He wasn’t one to play them. He remembered how she had looked at him, _them_ , when they had been introduced. Recognition. He said, “You know his work?”

“Who, Zevran’s?” She took a swig of her drink, hearty and indelicate, and winked. “You’re observant. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

Fenris didn’t think she would. You didn’t know Zevran if you didn’t have secrets of your own you wanted to keep covered, white sheets over a resting corpse, demons you killed by your own hand. He wondered where her ink was and what it covered, just as her eyes lingered over what little exposed skin of his she could see, the lines disappearing under the sleeves of his jacket and the neck of his shirt. She had the kind of gaze that could strip someone bare but she just looked at Fenris, appreciatively but nothing more. A truce.

She tilted her drink in an outward direction. “And believe me, none of these clowns will recognise his handiwork. We met elsewhere.”

“You know him well, then?” Fenris asked.

“Closest thing I’ve had to a best friend.” There was some cheering, some booing as Hawke threw down a hand of cards. “Besides from this lot, I mean.”

She said it fondly. Fenris was glad to move the conversations away from himself. “How long have you known them?”

“Too long, some might say.” She sighed, remembering. “Lost half my ship nearby and managed to dock to safety but was stuck in the arse-ends of nowhere for a while because of it. Turns out the arse-ends of nowhere is here and there’s a few more bell-ends to go with it. Thought ‘oh well, at least the view’s nice.’”

Her appreciative gaze had turned elsewhere and Fenris turned to follow it, naturally, to Hawke. He was swatting away the man who had grabbed the front of his shirt once more, claiming that Hawke was a lousy, filthy cheat whilst Hawke insisted he was only one of those things, maybe one and a half.

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “Is there…”

Isabela glanced at Fenris for a moment and then laughed easily. “One thing you’re going to have to get used to about Hawke, my sweet, is that everyone in this town has history with him. Though not always in the ways you think.”

“And you?”

She grinned. “Very observant, indeed. Well, you got me, fair and square. I had my fun. Who wouldn’t, with a man like that?”

Fenris considered her words. It was an irrefutable fact that Hawke was an attractive man, a handsome man, big and brilliant, pulling the gravity of the room to centre him where he sat, smug and flushed with drink. But he was also strange, a grown man who didn’t take down the photos of his childhood when he inherited his parent’s house after their passing and had to ask his friends to return his spare key so he could give it to someone he barely knew. And people let him. A man like the sun burnt to orbit too closely. He didn’t know his own power.

Across the room, Hawke noticed Fenris staring and raised his drink. Fenris turned away.

He must have been pulling some sort of face because Isabela nudged him with another lovely laugh. “Don’t look like that. Didn’t you swoon into his arms?”

Firmly, Fenris said, “I do not _swoon_.”

“Just a little would be nice, you’re definitely easy on the eyes.” Isabela sighed melodramatically. “I’m sad to have missed it. How did Hawke’s arms feel? Big? Strong? _Big_?”

He could not remember and it made him frown again, the idea that Isabela knew more than him on this account. Apparently realising that she would get no more out of this line of conversation, she raised her own glass, as Hawke had, and said, “Come on, drink up. You passed a week in his house and you didn’t kill or fuck him. That’s worth celebrating.”

That much, Fenris agreed on. He lifted his drink to his mouth and decided he liked Isabela.

They finished watching the game and then Isabela told him to never bet against Hawke when Varric was around before leading them back to the table where she sat herself down across from them and said, “Come on, boys, let’s see some proper action.”

Fenris stood beside Merrill who _ooh_ ed and _aah_ ed appropriately at every twist and turn of a card game Fenris could not work out the rules for. When Isabela took the game, best two out of three, Hawke defended himself on account of the fact that he was very, very drunk. He opened his wallet and tossed her its contents, not much but certainly more than what Isabela had actually won. Varric sighed and waved Isabela over so they could talk business. Hawke called out for another beer and Merrill turned to Fenris to say, “It’s a bad idea, isn’t it? How will you get him back?”

This sobered Fenris. Carver and Bethany had left Hawke without too much concern and Fenris had assumed that it was because Hawke always managed to find his way back. It had not occurred to him that Kirkwall didn’t have any sort of taxi service, certainly not one that would take them back to the heart of the middle of nowhere.

Hawke was the kind of man that tempted fate but from the way the crowd around him thinned with every game, it was becoming clear that people were avoiding him. Or rather, avoiding the responsibility of him. Every Friday, someone helped him home.

And everyone assumed that someone, this Friday night, would be Hawke’s new guest.

Fenris didn’t answer Merrill, moving instead towards Hawke who lounged back on a chair that was barely upright with the bulk of him. He was shuffling the cards between his hands and even when drunk, he did it compellingly, hands moving with the rhythm of time and practice, like the years spent learning to plait your little sister’s hair.

When Fenris’ shadow fell across him, he squinted up and then straightened, dropping the cards impulsively and grinning. “Fenris! I lost.”

“I saw,” Fenris said.

“Were you proud?”

Fenris shook his head, though it was not in answer, even though it should have been. “You’re drunk.”

Hawke made quotations around the word, “Allegedly.”

“How will we get back to the farm?”

“Oh.” Hawke leant back on the chair again. “Easy. Teamwork.”

Fenris looked at him for a long, long moment. “You can’t stand, can you?”

Hawke grinned again, as shameless as a misbehaving schoolboy. “Nope.”

Fenris almost wanted to pull the legs of the chair out from under the man. He looked around but Hawke’s friends had moved into the empty spaces that the nearing closing time had opened up. Merrill and Isabela were swaying sleepily to the jukebox music. Anders was sat at a table, talking to Varric who ignored him in favour of counting his shared winnings which he must have gambled back from Isabela (though at most they must have only covered half of Hawke’s drinks, given the state of Hawke.) Aveline was helping another inconsolable drunk out the door, her hands full.

Fenris rubbed at the bridge of his nose then sighed through it. He retrieved Hawke’s jacket and threw it on the man’s lap. Hawke jumped at the sight of it and then looked at Fenris accusingly.

“Put it on,” Fenris instructed plainly.

Hawke opened his mouth as if to argue but then looked at Fenris, bleary-eyed but not stupid (not entirely, anyway.) He shoved his arms through the sleeves and then let Fenris duck under his arm to wrap his own around Hawke’s middle. Barely.

“Shall I count to three?” Hawke asked and his breath was hot and alcoholic on Fenris’ face.

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“Was that a joke? ‘Cause only one of us will be straining in this–” Hawke didn’t finish his quip before Fenris planted his feet and pulled Hawke to his own. It was not easy but Hawke was willing, if unsteady. The only casualty was an empty glass rolling off the table and onto the carpet with a dull _thud_.

Hawke stared at Fenris with his jaw slack and his weight leaning almost entirely on Fenris. “You’re strong.”

Fenris shrugged, letting it fix Hawke’s arm over his shoulders. He had lifted enough crates and packed enough boxes and bloodied enough noses to know where his strengths laid but saw no need to draw attention to them. It only attracted men with something to prove or compensate for.

Hawke was neither.

He shouted out, “Everyone, look!” Then, too drunk to whisper, he said loudly in Fenris’ ear, “Now, pick me up.”

Much quieter, Fenris told him, “Don’t push your luck.”

Still, they had gotten the attention of Hawke’s friends who watched, in an arrangement of expressions, as Fenris tried to make Hawke put one foot in front of the other. As they advanced, Varric whistled, impressed. Isabela smirked and said, “Close enough.”

Hawke said his goodbyes groggily, holding his cheek out for Merrill and then Isabela to kiss and pouting when Anders didn’t, too busy holding his head at the nearest table. Varric sighed and said, “I’d wish you luck but I think I’m gonna need to keep some for myself. Come on, Blondie...”

They staggered out of the Hanged Man. The cold wasn’t entirely unwelcome, the effort of keeping Hawke upright making sweat gather at the base of Fenris’ neck and that didn’t account for the simple fact that Hawke seemed to always be _so warm_. Fenris started moving in the direction he vaguely recalled Carver drove from but it was not long before he stilled, between two roads he couldn’t remember from their journey here. Fenris was drunk enough to admit to himself that he may have been distracted by Hawke in the moments stolen from him.

Hawke barely lifted his head. “Left.”

It was not an easy feat, to half-carry, half-drag an oversized drunk man through a place he didn’t know but Hawke _knew_ , not seeing with an unfocused gaze but feeling with something like muscle memory. He had done this before, perhaps alone, perhaps leaning on friends but maybe simply dragging his palms across walls until the bricks became a path. At every intersection, Hawke voiced an instruction. Sometimes, Fenris would look at him and find Hawke’s eyes closed. He smiled as if he could feel Fenris looking at him, as if he knew this too.

They stumbled past houses with their lights off and the occasional straggler making their own way home until they ran out of streetlights and stopped at fields shrouded in fog. Fenris paused, remembering Hawke’s warning of the unforgiving pathways that surrounded his home. It made it difficult to leave, Fenris had noted, but had not realised finding it would be a cause for concern too. But here they were, Hawke caught between sleep and drunkenness, and Fenris gazing out at fields upon fields of dark and fog and little else illuminated by a shy moon. It was like looking into the eye of death.

He wondered how he had ended up here, carrying the very man that caught him.

“Trust me,” Hawke said suddenly and it was a breath of words, surprisingly quiet.

It was an impossible request but Fenris was at a loss, staring at nothingness. They moved on.

And somehow, they found themselves back in front of Hawke’s house. Fenris let go of Hawke when they reached the door, even though all Hawke could do for a minute was lean against the nearest wall, forehead pressed against the doorframe, breathing with effort. Fenris sat down on the ground, uncaring of the mud, feeling suddenly drunker when his surroundings were too dark for him to see just how much they span. He heard Hawke fumble with his jacket and then his jeans for his keys. Fenris would not have been surprised if he’d lost them on the way.

He hadn’t and Fenris dragged himself back to his feet in time to catch Hawke by the back of his jacket before he could quite literally fall through the open door. Fenris closed it behind them with his elbow, finding himself caught under Hawke’s arm once more as they attempted to squeeze through the hallway already too small for Hawke, let alone the single drunken being they had become. If Hawke had tried to turn on the lights as they passed, he missed the switch every time.

At the foot of the stairs, Hawke swore, more colourfully than he had ever said anything within Fenris’ earshot.

“Take my bed,” he said to Fenris.

“No,” Fenris answered.

“Cock and balls.”

Somehow, they made it up the stairs without Hawke tipping backwards. When he reached his bed, he barely kicked his shoes off before he pitched forward, head first into his pillow. The absence of Hawke made Fenris unsteady. He caught himself but just barely. The house was still in darkness but Hawke’s curtains were open and the moonlight peeked through wisps of clouded fog. Hawke rolled over onto his elbows and looked up. Even in white light, his eyes were warm and his eyelids were heavy. Fenris wasn’t sure Hawke saw him at all.

Fenris had to blink once himself to realise Hawke was reaching out with a hand. Twice to realise he held something in it. _Third time’s the charm_ , Isabela had said. Fenris could make out a key.

He took it and Hawke collapsed back with a heavy but not unhappy sigh. Relief. His eyes were closed when he said, “I’m glad you’re here, Fenris. I’m happy you stayed.”

Fenris said nothing. He wondered if Hawke would remember any of this in the morning or if he would remember the nothing, the silence which Fenris could not fill.

Hawke was asleep before Fenris even left his bedroom. Across the hallway, he tried the key in the only locked door in the house which opened to a room with a stripped bed and little else that mattered to Fenris, in that moment.

He laid down and fell asleep to the sound of Hawke snoring through the walls.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i retconned in a dining room

And Fenris woke to the sound of some sort of commotion coming from Hawke’s room.

He also woke with a dry mouth and a brief moment of unsureness, lying in yesterday’s clothes on a bed that had no sheets in a room that was host to nothing but a fine layer of dust that rose up in the sunlight that streamed in from a gap in the curtains Fenris had not closed before he collapsed. He rolled onto his back as he heard more noise following the loud thud, clattering and swearing. It did not sound like Hawke was in any immediate danger – or if he was, it was, at the very least, only to himself – so Fenris rose slowly.

When he opened Hawke’s bedroom door, the man was on the floor. He must have pulled off his clothes in the night because, between the tangle of sheets he had caught himself in, there was only skin, too much of it, and the thick hair that covered it. He did not look comfortable but like a man who had accepted his fate, eyes closed where he laid, breathing heavily. When Fenris cleared his throat to announce his arrival, he opened one eye and then lifted his hand to shield both.

“Fuck,” he said, voice deep and pained. He was hungover and it clearly incapitated all six foot something of him. He still wore a single sock. It was not possible for a grown man to look more pathetic.

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Good morning.”

Hawke groaned before Fenris had even finished speaking. “Don’t lie to me. It’s not good.”

Fenris conceded. “It may not even still be morning.”

Hawke glared at him and then winced when even that seemed to cause him pain. “I liked you better in my dreams.”

Fenris said nothing. He didn’t actually want to know.

In the silence, Hawke interrupted it with a grunt in the effort to lift a hand to find purchase on the side of his bed and used it to pull himself into an upright position. He sat there for a moment, breathing heavily from the exertion, and then groaned, dropping his head into his hands. The sheets had pooled around his waist and with his face out of view, all Fenris could focus on was the sheer enormity of his arms, of his shoulders and of his chest. It was a wonder he had not broken anything in the process of falling.

It was also a wonder how Fenris had gotten him home last night at all.

Hawke’s voice was muffled as he spoke through his hands. “I’ve made a mistake, Fenris.”

“Is that so?”

Slowly, Hawke lifted his head from his hands and his eyes were glassy. The lashes that framed them were dark enough to look wet. “Drinking is bad,” he said hoarsely.

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me you will never do it again?”

“I will not live to do it again. Can you not see? It’s the end of the road for me.” His head lolled where he leant against the bed. “Take care of Champ.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Do you need help getting up from the floor or can I leave?”

This made Hawke raise his head once more to blink. “You’ll help?”

Fenris was almost insulted. “How do you think you got home last night?”

Hawke thought about it and it made him frown. Fenris realised, “You don’t remember?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.” Hawke was rubbing at his face. “The birthdays of my innermost dearest friends, yes. The events that transpired after I valiantly won us all several rounds of drinks? Not even remotely.”

They were even. Neither of them remembered each other’s touch.

Fenris stared at Hawke, big and ridiculous and so hungover he looked on the edge of tears. Then he asked the obvious question, “How do you normally get yourself home?”

“I let the wind take me.”

A pause. “Sometimes you don’t make it home, do you?”

“I have the unique ability of being able to fall asleep anywhere.”

Hawke was a man with a death wish. “You should not be alive.”

“Don’t worry,” Hawke replied with deceptive cheer, “it’ll be over soon. I’m going to die today.”

Fenris shook his head as Hawke closed his eyes where he sat, slumped. He was not expecting Hawke to ask, “Besides from the feel of your arms carrying me home, is there anything else missing in my memory that I should be notified of?”

“You lost the entirety of your wallet to Isabela in a game of cards.”

Hawke winced in a different kind of pain. “And Varric didn’t help me?”

“He took some of it.”

Hawke slumped further. “I will die, betrayed by those I love. Is there no justice in this world?”

“There wasn’t much to take.”

Hawke opened a single eye before Fenris could hide his smile. “And humiliated by the man who will not simply let me lay down and die. What next? You’ll tell me there’s no bacon in the fridge?” When Fenris opened his mouth, Hawke raised a hand. “Don’t– I can’t do this. I’m too fragile.”

Fragile was not a word Fenris would use to describe Hawke. And yet, he took pity on the man and reached out his hand, stopping before the tips of his fingers could touch Hawke’s where it was still raised. Hawke opened both eyes then to stare hard at it, at the long fingers, dark skin interrupted with white, as if trying to remember if Fenris had reached out like this last night. Hawke was not a man afraid of help but he didn’t need to ask for it, not often and people were willing anyway, giving. Now Fenris could count himself in those people, ignoring how Hawke had made his bed on the floor and offering the man a helping hand.

He took it. His grip was tight and warm where it circled around Fenris’ wrist. Hawke could wrap his hand around it easily. In return, Fenris circled his own around the band of red, using Hawke’s own wrist as leverage and when Hawke pushed, Fenris pulled. The sheets fell from his hips, revealing that he had not been so foolish to undress entirely. On his feet, Hawke was unsteady and he reached out with a flat palm to hold the nearest wall. Fenris was close to the thickness of his bare arm.

“I’m okay,” Hawke said when Fenris eyed him warily. “The world is just spinning and I might vomit but I’m a strong independent man.”

Fenris took a step back for his own safety but no further for Hawke’s. Hawke waved him off. “Go. Unless you want to hold back my hair in less than a minute then, by all means, stay. I also like back rubs.”

Fenris did not need to be told twice.

To Hawke’s credit, Fenris didn’t hear him throw up. The bedroom was suspiciously quiet as Fenris changed. He opted to forgo the shower to leave the bathroom empty for Hawke should he need it but was still desperate to take off yesterday’s clothes that smelled of bad booze. It was only when he was downstairs that he heard Hawke stumbling across the landing, cursing the height of doorways or the clothes horse or the narrowness of the hallway until he reached the bathroom. The pipes announced running water.

It was strange in the kitchen without Champ in his bed by the radiator. Fenris inspected the contents of the fridge and was relieved to find enough to make breakfast for them both. After a short deliberation, he doubled back to get extra bacon.

Fenris set to work, frying and toasting and flipping. He was filling the kettle when Hawke descended the stairs, spelling strongly of citrus (Fenris predicted he had spilled the body wash with wet, hungover hands) but otherwise, he looked more human than he had earlier. He wore his dressing gown but was still towelling his hair when he saw Fenris at the counter. His eyes flickered from the piled plates and Fenris who felt like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Hawke tossed his towel over the radiator and walked over to Fenris. He sounded breathless when he said, “You made breakfast.”

“Yes?” Fenris said and he didn’t mean for it to sound like a question.

Hawke looked at Fenris, who extended a plate towards him, with an expression that was holding back something close to tears. “Thank you,” he said and he was not ashamed to owe another man a thing. His gratitude was genuine.

Fenris watched as Hawke took his plate and collapsed heavily on the nearest chair but he did not, like Fenris had thought he would, begin eating immediately. Warily, Fenris sat down across him with his own plate, watching Hawke stare down at the food with more emotion than it deserved. Fenris did not know what he would do if Hawke started crying. He merely focused on running his knife across the yolk of the fried egg on his plate and watching it weep instead. How Hawke survived mornings alone, Fenris could not imagine.

He didn’t realise he had spoken out loud until Hawke answered, “Easy. I crack an egg and then I cry, probably.” When Fenris looked quizzically at him, Hawke shrugged. “You ever tried to get egg shells out of your pan when you’re hungover? It’s dehumanising.”

Fenris shook his head at the corners of Hawke’s mouth that were always barely resisting a smile. He continued, “And then I take a nap.”

“How long is the nap?”

“The entire day.”

Fenris snorted. “Of course.”

“I told you.” Hawke picked up a knife and fork and began cutting into a sausage. “I’m not as strong as I look.”

Fenris looked at Hawke filling the tiny nightgown he insisted on wearing and then thought of him tossing Isabela his wallet. There were, of course, different ways one could be strong.

The kettle noised its completion and Fenris stood to pour coffee for them both into novelty mugs that Hawke was proud to own. Fenris didn’t look as he chose them but scooped some sugar into one that resembled the other random assortment of ceramic things in the house, wonky but earnest, and poured milk into another that proudly proclaimed ‘World’s Best Farmer.’ Hawke took it with a full mouth and grateful eyes.

They ate in a quiet unlike anything Fenris had witnessed here. Without Champ trying to swipe food from their plates and Hawke too focused on every mouthful (it was hard to tell if he was savouring it or simply trying not to bring it up again), the silence revealed that the house was never quiet, tree branches knocking their spindly hands on the windows and the floorboards creaking like the ghosts of previous tenants danced on them. It didn’t bother Hawke but perhaps it explained the constant stream of friends at his door and the photos still framed on his fireplace. Hawke didn’t live a lonely life but he so easily could have.

Hawke cleared his plate, leaving nothing but smears of yellow and crumbs that he brushed from the corner of his mouth. He retrieved his mug and nursed it like it was something healing. Fenris supposed it was.

He blew on the steam rising from the mug and spoke into the air left in its wake. “The spare room’s door was open.”

His voice was clearer, stronger, as if to disguise that the night prior had taken a chunk of his brain. Fenris said, “You gave me the key.”

“I did? That was very clever of me.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

Hawke squinted at him. “You’re laughing at me.”

Fenris’ mouth twitched. “This is not what a laugh sounds like.”

“No, you’re right,” Hawke agreed, sitting back with a puff of effort. He was not good at hiding his own smile. “I’ve heard your laugh.”

For some reason, Fenris felt embarrassed at the way Hawke, so foolish, smiled like knowing. It was not an unfair exchange. Fenris had seen Hawke unable to stand, in the middle of the night in the crossroads of land that was somehow his own and the morning after, on the floor in a tangle of sheets, naked save for his underwear and a single sock. They were more than even.

But Fenris looked away. Hawke didn’t. He said, “You were quiet. Last night.”

Fenris didn’t point out that he had drank significantly less than Hawke had. “You have loud friends.”

“You can call them bad names.” Hawke grinned like a proud parent. “I won’t tell.”

“You were still louder,” Fenris pointed out.

“Thank you.”

“I–” Fenris cut himself off with a shake of his head. “I liked Isabela.”

“Yeah?” Hawke raised his eyebrows as if surprised that Fenris _liked_ anything. “Well, if you’re ever interested in bringing bedfellows, just warn me in advance. I don’t like strangers in my house.” When Fenris raised his eyebrows back at him, Hawke’s lowered, furrowing. “What? I don’t!”

Seeing no point in arguing, Fenris clarified, “I meant she was good company.”

“Oh. Well, I’m glad you won’t be sneaking her in. Every time she comes, she leaves with something that doesn’t belong to her.” Hawke frowned, considering his own words, then hurriedly added, “‘Comes’ as in visiting, not–”

Fenris was not hungover but he felt it coming on. “You don’t need to explain.”

“Just wanted to make sure–”

“I got it, Hawke.”

This made Hawke pause. He stared at Fenris until Fenris had to ask, “What?”

Hawke shook his head then smiled. “I’ve never heard you say my name.”

He did not need to sound so awed. Fenris cleared his throat and then pointed out, rightfully, “It’s not even your first name.”

“Semantics,” Hawke said and it sounded ridiculous coming from the man who fell from his bed this morning. He was done with his food and his coffee and sat with the fullness, patting his stomach without a hint of self-consciousness. Fenris did not feel compelled to look away from him, not even when he saw how Hawke’s cheeks had restored in colour, flushed with an almost boyish delight. Hawke was inviting.

“Has that cured every ill?” Fenris asked.

“As delicious as it was – thank you again, by the way – no.” Hawke missed the dryness in Fenris’ tone as he rose to his feet to stretch. His little nightgown moved with him. “But the infamous all-day nap might.”

He took their plates to the sink to soak and told Fenris over his shoulder and the rush of running water, “Bethany will be back with Champ at some point and with any luck, she’ll have had him running laps on the way back. If not, wake me up as soon as he starts being a bother. He’ll whine non-stop if you don’t tire him out proper.” He paused, twisting the tap shut. “Huh. So that’s what people mean when they say dogs are like their owners.”

Fenris said nothing, watching Hawke retrieve his towel then head upstairs at a leisurely pace, tired but not uncontent. Fenris was once again left alone in the empty kitchen.

He washed the dishes then dried them and put them away as best as he could in Hawke’s organised mess. Then he showered quickly and retreated to the living room to sit in front of the TV for lack of anything better to do. He had spent the week watching things mindlessly and waiting for Hawke to return from work but it was stranger to know Hawke was only up the stairs, sleeping. It made Fenris oddly restless. He eyed his backpack which he had propped in a corner next to the bookshelf where it sat relatively undisturbed. He did not carry anything with him that would entertain him, stripped to bare necessities, light to carry and easily tucked away. He considered the odd number of pieces of ceramic in the house and if the same hands that molded the strange little chicks had learnt to make the beautiful vase. He wondered if they were Hawke’s hands. He thought about Hawke’s hands.

Several meaningless episodes of a TV show later, a knock came to the door and Fenris heard Champ before he saw him, opening it to be close to tackled by the excited dog. He was almost flattered by the attention, patting Champ’s head in an attempt to both appease and subdue him.

Bethany sighed but not without fondness. “Champ, no– I’m sorry, Fenris. He gets like this when he’s been away for the night.”

“No harm done.”

“Is my brother alive?”

Fenris found himself amused by her tired, knowing tone. “With some effort, yes.”

“And here I am delivering a dog to care for on top of babysitting Hawke.” She shook her head. “Don’t let him guilt you into giving him a break. He brings it upon himself, you know?”

Fenris did not mention that he had also made breakfast. He hummed as Bethany told him that she had not tired Champ out (“Honestly, I have no idea how Hawke does it!”) but she _had_ fed him a big lunch so any whining was him being greedy, don’t listen, God, he really _is_ like my brother, isn’t he? She left with a serious insistence that Fenris should call if he ran into any trouble but not before he pushed Hawke out of bed, for good measure. Fenris smiled as he waved her off.

Champ followed Fenris to the living room and Fenris had a feeling the dog wasn’t allowed on the sofa but he said nothing. They sat together, Champ with his nose pressing against Fenris’ arm every so often when he wanted attention. Fenris curled his hand over Champ’s dark head willingly, looking at the friendly creature now they were both still enough to. Thick fur soft to the touch and mostly black, over his head and alert ears but then white at his chest, swirling against his middle and down his paws. Then there was a ying-yang under a black nose that felt damp where it bumped against Fenris’ knuckles, forcing Fenris to meet his warm brown eyes. A pink tongue hung from a mouth full of white teeth that bared in a constant smile. He gazed up at Fenris with so much affection, Fenris was momentarily overwhelmed. It was so readily given, like a farmer with strong arms offering a warm meal and a place to stay. Fenris could only pet him.

They watched TV together though Fenris thought Champ was watching it more than he was. He was a friendly dog, as clever as you expected a sheepdog to be, and big and warm. For as long as his attention stayed on the images flickering light across the room, he was content at Fenris’ side.

He would not be idle for long, however. Eventually he would wander around whining, first in the kitchen until Fenris refused to fill his food bowl but topped his water bowl and then, water dripping from the fur around his mouth, he circled the living room restlessly. A few hours had passed since Hawke had gone back to bed but Fenris got as far as the foot of the stairs until he hesitated. He turned, first to look down at where Champ trotted after him, panting expectedly, and then the red leash that hung from a coat hook.

It would be dark soon and Fenris did not take chances. He grabbed the leash and Champ’s eyes lit up, making the act of getting it around the dog’s neck a little easier because of what it promised. Pulling on his own jacket and shoes, Fenris looked around for a spare house key but found only the ones that Hawke carried, dropped on the kitchen table in passing from the night before. They were heavy with an assortment of keyrings which included but was not limited to weird felt animals with missing eyes that could as easily be a stylistic choice as they could have been the cost of living in Hawke’s pocket, a remarkably practical tool that was simultaneously a compass, a screwdriver and a can opener and then a full heart that could be separated to say ‘BEST’ and ‘FRIENDS’ but, for reasons unknown to Fenris, Hawke had kept both halves. It made sense that Hawke had not lost the keys the night before because Fenris was sure that if they fell to the ground, the whole town would hear.

Fenris led Champ to the door, trying not to trip over the excited dog, before he hesitated again. Then he turned back and found the nearest hastily opened envelope on the table and a pen to scrawl a note to say they’d gone for a walk in a hand that was shaky and unpracticed but legible. At the very least, he hoped it would mean Hawke would not encourage any kind of trouble that would end up with him locked out of his own home. It was too easy to imagine.

Outside, the weather was blissfully dry, yesterday’s fog all but evaporated. Fenris had not looked out all day but was glad the sunset had chased away any blue skies into purple that was easier on Fenris’ eyes. Champ scrambled to hurry ahead, yapping out at the fields empty of sheep and Fenris was surprised by his strength though he shouldn’t have been. He held the leash with two hands and pressed the balls of his feet to the ground, not letting himself be yanked ahead, not wishing to give Hawke the satisfaction that Fenris always found himself falling over on the farm.

To Champ’s credit, he listened to Fenris’ tentative attempt at instructions, clearing his throat with rising confidence when Champ responded first to _sit_ , tail wagging back and forth in anticipation, and then _walk_ and _stop, stay_ at the gate down the lane which Fenris opened with untrained hands, hurrying Champ through with a _come on, boy_ in fear that the heavy wood would swing back and hurt him. He looked back at the house that got smaller with every step and felt the keys heavy in his pocket, the compass spinning. He did not know where it would lead him.

Champ, at least, had some idea of the route he took normally and Fenris let himself be led, speeding up a little to keep pace. They left behind the house but stayed on the lane and Fenris tried to find something distinctive at every turn, a gate with a broken sign reminding Fenris to close it behind himself or a tree with low hanging branches like a body sagging with age. Champ knew, a creature of relative habit, following a stream of water that connected to a small gated pond that was surrounded by ducks that startled at the intrusion. Champ merely barked a greeting but Fenris kept a solid grip on his leash until they moved on, only stopping at the occasional tree for Champ to lift a hind leg to mark.

At a passage that was more open, Champ sat at Fenris’ feet with hopeful eyes and Fenris made sure there were no birds for Champ to bother before squatting to remove his collar. He held onto it with a simmering anxiety but Champ knew the farm better than Fenris did, running from spot to spot to dig at burrows, panting with fervent focus. When he barked, it was as if to call Fenris over to see what he had found, only he didn’t wait for Fenris to come closer, running back with an impressively sized stick between his grinning teeth. He dropped it at Fenris’ boots and sat back to look up at Fenris with those big, brown eyes.

Fenris smiled and picked up the stick. “Let’s find a proper field.”

Champ barked and it sounded overjoyed. He followed Fenris loyally and they found a field that went on as far as the eye could see, rising up slowly in the distance to touch the sky and dipping beyond their vision. Champ sat but barely, eyes frantic as they watched Fenris move the stick from hand to hand to exercise them. Fenris asked him if he was ready and Champ barked an affirmative. Fenris took a step back and angled his body before throwing the stick with enough force to feel the burn in his weary bones.

And Champ was off, bounding with impressive speed for a creature as large as he was, a blur of black and white in the green. The stick had only just hit the ground when Champ reached it, retrieving it with his mouth and tearing through the grass to deposit it at Fenris’ feet once more. Fenris threw it again.

Each throw burned less than the last but it was a comfortable ache, a working ache, familiar and honest. He had spent the past week sitting more than he ever had in his life, warm in front of a fire or under the arm of a drunken man whose skin burnt to touch. He did not want to forget the cold air, the feel of solid ground under his feet and the power of his own muscles, burning to keep him moving, alive. It was the only burning that mattered.

Fenris threw the stick until the purple in the sky deepened and the stick snapped when it fell to the ground for the final time. Champ did not retrieve either half. He was distracted, nose low to the ground as he sniffed, searching. His ears perked and when he ran back towards Fenris, he held something luminous and green between his teeth which made Fenris wary but, upon closer inspection, he was relieved to see not a baby bird but a deflated tennis ball, muddy and forgotten. It said that Champ had played here before. It said Fenris had picked well. It was approval.

Fenris took the reward.

The game of fetch had ended but Champ danced around Fenris, unwilling to be leashed, whining in protest as he trotted out of reach. At the beginning of the evening and in an empty field out of the sight of any living creature, Fenris sighed and started running like he had never stopped. It took a moment for his legs to remember how, knees bracing and feet pushing off the ground, jarring up his bones like a shock. Fenris chased Champ.

And Champ ran too, trying to avoid Fenris’ hands and barking like laughter at the new game. They raced to where the sky met the ground and over, a steep decline over to more of an endless field, distantly marked with gates that Fenris could not see so could not fathom.

Here, Champ dug his paws into the grass but Fenris couldn’t stop, not now he had started, carrying this curse even when his belongings were no longer on his back. His heart thrummed up his chest and into his ears and the wind in his face was insistent. Fenris ran against it, muscles burning with the effort and with power. The only burning that mattered, the only power he could control.

Champ had stopped, knowing not to go beyond an invisible line in the grass, and Fenris thought distantly that he was clever, that he would find his way back better than Fenris ever could or Hawke would come looking, worried for his dog and maybe Fenris too. Fenris could run until the grass turned to concrete, wave down a car and leave this place like a dream.

But as he ran with the red in his hands, the keys in his pocket that were not his own hit his side in rhythm and something most definitely _squeaked_ and Fenris felt that Kirkwall had made him as ridiculous as its occupants. He would run if only to remember he could but his belongings sat in another man’s house where he was being given lodging for nothing. If he wanted to be cold, he could simply let the fireplace burn out.

Fenris rooted his feet in the ground and came to a halt. The wind kept moving but he could see it now, a gate obstructing oblivion. He wondered if this had been the field he had first seen Hawke and his siblings, chasing a wayward chicken. A path for all manners of runway.

He turned and Champ barked at the sight of his retreat where he waited, eyes intelligent enough for Fenris to feel almost embarrassed about his outburst. Still, the dog let him put on the leash with little resistance and they walked back across the field they had crossed at a pace gentle enough for Fenris’ heartbeat to settle. By the time they returned to the front door of Hawke’s home, it was dark and no one could have known Fenris had ran, not unless they saw the sweat at the base of his neck or the way Champ stuck close to his legs as if afraid he would run again.

Fenris wasted several minutes at the door trying to find a key amidst the keyrings and then the right one. In that time, he felt the glow of the hallway light through the glass in the door and then realised he could hear music. When he got the right key in and twisted the front door open, the sound of something upbeat and bluesy was playing from the dining room, the door that was never open propped so with a chair from the kitchen. Fenris was taking Champ’s leash off when he heard Hawke ask “Fenris?” from the kitchen. When his head popped around the doorway, Fenris felt embarrassed again like Hawke would see where his shirt pressed against him, under his arms and on his back.

But Hawke grinned in greeting and was distracted by Champ who launched himself on his owner, only barely less excitable from the walk that had successfully tired him out. Hawke laughed, encouraging Champ down as Fenris hung up the leash and his jacket. As he passed the dining room doorway, he saw a record player on the otherwise empty table, spinning in the dark.

“You could have woken me,” Hawke was saying.

Fenris looked at him and was satisfied to find him looking well-rested, hair a touch more unruly from where it had pressed against a pillow and skin flushed but it was hard to say if it was because he had just woken or if it was from the heat of the kitchen. Behind him, there was the sound of something on the stove and the smell of spices around them all.

Fenris’ stomach rumbled. Hawke smiled like he heard but he said nothing. He looked down at Champ. “I hope the beast was good.”

“He’s very clever.”

Hawke put his hands on his hips as he squinted suspiciously at his dog who had grown tired of Hawke’s waning attention and slid past. “Let me guess... he brought you the finest stick in the land. The little cheat.”

Fenris had nothing to say to that. He nodded at where the room music floated from like steam rising to the ceiling. “I didn’t realise you were a fan.”

“Of music?” Hawke blinked. “Who isn’t?”

Fenris shrugged. Hawke’s face twisted in horror. “You don’t like _music_? Fenris, is everything alright at home?”

It was a cheap joke and Fenris rolled his eyes. “I just didn’t think you were the type to collect records.”

“I don’t. Most of these were my old man’s.” After a pause, he smiled, a little lopsided, and said, “Would you believe I don’t like the quiet much?”

Fenris laughed a little. It was not so much funny as it was honest. Hawke’s smile softened at the corners when he said, “Dinner’s nearly done.”

Fenris nodded and left for the bathroom to wash up. There he washed his face and the back of his neck and gripped the sink for a moment when the world spun. Somehow, he was still breathless.

When he returned downstairs, Hawke had lowered the volume of the record to a pleasant hum and switched the light on to set up the dining table, laying a big pot of pasta on a coaster made of wool in the shape of an animal that could have as easily been a dog as it could have been a sheep. Fenris hesitated at the doorway, staring at the deer head which looked strangely less sinister in the yellow light and the cards on the fireplace that it was not cold enough to light.

Then Hawke looked up from where he was laying out cutlery and smiled at Fenris like he had the first morning, not like he knew Fenris had almost left but was happy he had stayed.

They ate together to the sound of music that made Hawke’s leg dance under the table.

After, Hawke lifted the needle and they washed the dishes together to the tune of water running. Champ watched them sleepily from where he curled on his bed. The morning’s quiet had returned and settled. Now, Fenris was tired.

In the living room, Hawke sat down on the sofa and watched as Fenris picked up his backpack from where he had left it and his jacket from the hallway.

“You’re leaving?” Hawke asked.

Fenris stilled at the doorway, at the question. “To go to bed.”

“I’m gonna be up all night because of that nap. I probably should have thought this through.” Then Hawke shook his head as if to banish any thinking. “If Champ scratches at your door at night, don’t let him in or you’ll never get rid of him. He’s clingy like that.”

Fenris wondered about the similarities between dog and owner once more. He nodded. “Goodnight.”

“Sleep tight.”

When Fenris flicked the light on in his still new room, he found the bed was no longer bare, pillows piled at the head and sheets fitted. Fenris dropped his things and stood there, as if expecting a punchline in the white sheets. When he touched them, they felt soft and new.

Then Fenris emptied what little he had in his backpack onto them. A few pieces of clothing, some toiletries he hadn’t used since Hawke seemed to collect types of body-wash in a variety of exotic combinations that lined any empty space in the bathroom, his testosterone pills, a flashlight, batteries and other miniscule essentials, the corpse of a first aid kit, an empty bottle of water and a pocket knife. He looked at everything for a minute and then started packing it all back. His pill bottle rattled too loudly when he picked it up, signalling the nearing end. He put the backpack at arms reach and the knife in the bedside table which was mercifully Bible-free.

Then he picked up his jacket to put on the hook behind the door. As he did, he felt a shape protruding from it and when he dug into the pocket, he found Champ’s tennis ball, covered in dirt and punctured pathetically. Fenris had forgotten he had pocketed it. He should have thrown it out into the endless fields once more.

Instead, he put it on the empty shelf. It was no longer empty.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year everyone! sorry for the slight delay!! i'm in deadline hell so there might be a teeny delay between updates but i hope this lengthy update makes up for this round of waiting - enjoy!  
> also thank you to blandine for answering my 101 questions about what REALLY goes down in church. this is all for u (it always is)

Sunday began with Hawke at Fenris’ doorway. Fenris was already awake and showered when he called an assent at the knock and Hawke opened the door with a theatrical slowness, one eye closed and shoulders hunched to his ears until Fenris said, “I’m not naked, Hawke.”

Hawke relaxed and pushed the door open until it hit the wall behind it. “Good start. What are your plans for the morning?”

Fenris stared. Hawke marched into the room and he was fully dressed in a T-shirt, jeans without rips and a knitted cardigan in a variety of colours in an arrangement of geometric shapes. Fenris knew that, at some point, he would stop looking twice at Hawke but today he still blinked. It felt like a trick question. He said, “Should I have plans?”

Hawke shrugged. “It’s always good to ask.”

“I live in your house.”

This made Hawke frown but only a little, as if he wasn’t sure how to make the space between his eyebrows point downwards and his mouth turn from a smile into a grimace. “Sure you do but you can have your own plans, Fenris. Have a lie in. Read a really good book.”

For some reason, Fenris said the first thing that came into his head. “I don’t read.”

“Me neither!” And just like that, Hawke’s expression lit up like sunlight, evaporating the frown. “Books? Too big.”

Fenris smiled too. “Not even Varric’s?”

“Not unless he reads them out to me before bed whilst stroking my hair.”

The worst part was not that Fenris wasn’t sure if Hawke was kidding or not but rather that Fenris could envision it easily and it felt like a waste of imagination, a part of his brain occupied with the idea, like if it wasn’t, this particular part of his brain would write the next great novel. Stupidly, Fenris thought about how Hawke would not read that either.

Hawke was looking around his room and then he squinted at Fenris with ferocious effort. Fenris simply waited for him to say something. He did not disappoint. “Are you a monk?”

“Am I a– what?”

“A monk,” Hawke said, as if he assumed Fenris was asking for repetition, not clarification. Fenris waited. Hawke gestured, prompting. “You know. No earthly possessions.”

“I am not Buddhist, no,” Fenris answered slowly. He was waiting for a punchline. He always was, with Hawke.

Hawke just nodded. “That’s good to know.”

It wasn’t a punchline but Fenris felt insulted anyway. He looked around himself at the empty room. It was still strange to think of it as his own.

Hawke slapped his hands over his jean pockets and drew Fenris’ attention back to him. “I’m going into the village. You can stay with Champ if you’d like. Or I can dump him on Carver. Champ’s easy.”

Fenris considered the offer. He had given Hawke no illusion of having plans but Hawke still waited as if Fenris would suddenly remember a book he really wanted to read. Choices. Fenris considered them.

And then he said, “I’ll join you.”

Hawke looked pleased.

They had a quick breakfast and then Hawke herded his sheepdog out the door with promises of treats, dozens of treats outside of Carver’s budget. Fenris waited, drying dishes to give his hands something to do, and when Hawke returned, he stuck his head through the door and called for him. When Fenris followed his voice, Hawke was already sat in his truck and the engine rumbled to a start. It was a battered red thing, a little splattered with mud and a dent running along its side like a cut. Fenris wondered what Hawke had driven into and then, if he should be afraid of getting into the passenger seat. He did anyway.

Inside, Hawke’s truck was much like his home, cluttered but not dirty, mostly revealing corpses of straw packets and too many napkins from drive through meals and dog toys, one of which had been on the passenger seat that Fenris had picked up in order to sit down. He held it for a minute, unsure of where to put it. Hawke leant past him to pop open the glove compartment and Fenris hastily dropped it in the midst of papers, CDs with titles written in marker and a kitchen roll, squished to fit. Hawke’s arm pressed against his knees. He had removed his cardigan for the drive. When he sat back, his head nearly knocked up against the rear view mirror, making the air freshener in the shape of a pine tree swing madly. It smelled of nothing and was faded enough for Fenris to believe it was impressively old. On the dashboard, there was a bobblehead of a dog that stared back at Fenris, nodding when the truck turned out of Hawke’s driveway. Hawke really collected the oddest of trinkets.

It was the kind of day where the sky bordered between grey and blue, more brisk than cold but when Fenris rubbed his hands together in his lap, Hawke turned the heat on in the truck, just a little. Gentle warmth filtered through the heaters like an exhale of breath. As Hawke drove, he pointed out the things it had been too dark for Fenris to see on the way to the village on Friday which was more of what littered Hawke’s lawn, piles of wood he needed to get round to burning, a silage heap that had lasted them through winter covered with a plastic sheeting that didn’t blow away because of the tires, big and small, that held it down and then, “A big tree. I like that tree.”

Fenris could admit, at least to himself, that it was an impressive tree.

Once they left behind the winding paths that forced Hawke to drive in a crawl, he stepped his foot on the gas. The way to the village in the daytime revealed little more than the journey in the dark except for grazing sheep that did not startle when Hawke sped by. They seemed used to it. Fenris wasn’t but he made no show of it, holding his seat but keeping his gaze trained on the horizon as it dipped and lifted into view. Again, Fenris saw fields, emptiness and then a deceptively quiet Kirkwall, a high street devoid of people. He knew now, however, that it simply meant every occupant of the village was elsewhere. They drove past the Hanged Man.

Eventually they stopped in a parking lot that didn’t have markers on the ground but if it did, Fenris thought Hawke was out of the lines, the truck to an angle facing a building which was unmistakably a church. Fenris stared at it for so long – at the stone that it shared with the rest of Kirkwall, the slanted roof of a darker shade and the collared tower of the same storm grey which had a pointed steeple, topped with a cross cutting into the clouds – that it wasn’t until Hawke rounded the truck and knocked on his window that he realised Hawke had gotten out at all. Fenris followed, blinking as if his sight would clear and something more sensible would appear in its place but every blink made him look again, at a large wooden door in a deep mahogany propped open in invitation, at a courtyard where people milled unwilling to enter just yet and at Hawke who walked towards it all like he had in the Hanged Man. Here, the sound of an entire village was not compressed by the walls of a pub spilling over with residents. Instead, the air was open and the chatter rose into the sky, filling the clouds with memories of the week that had gone and predictions for the week that would come until it felt like there was a ceiling that Fenris would hit his head against. Hawke walked with his head in the clouds.

His cardigan made sense now, at least. Sunday best.

It was a relief to spot Varric and Varric was relieved to spot them. He broke away from the crowd to meet them halfway. If _he_ was wearing his Sunday best, Fenris couldn’t tell because his shirt was a variation of the one he wore when they met and just as unbuttoned. He was rewarded with some glares from the pearl-clutching pious as he passed but he paid them no mind. The gold of his jewellery felt bright against the oppressive grey of the church.

“About time,” he said as soon as they were near enough to hear him. “I thought I’d never hear the end of the Dumar family’s contributions to the Parish.”

“It’s always nice to see you too, Varric,” Hawke said, patting his shoulder in equal parts greeting and comfort.

“And you brought Kirkwall’s most recent addition. Alert the congregation.” Varric nodded at Fenris and then tipped his head towards Hawke for emphasis. “Whatever Hawke’s paying you, I can tell you it’s not worth it. It usually never is.”

Fenris tried to make sense of this information. His expression must have twisted into something that suited the name Varric had bestowed upon him because Varric frowned too. “Uh-oh. Based on expression alone, I’m gonna say Hawke didn’t tell you he was taking you to meet your Maker.”

When Fenris looked at Hawke accusingly, Hawke’s face was turned away, the picture of innocence, flitting over the groups of people that were starting to notice him. He waved and loudly, too loudly, said, “Is that _Rebecca_?” He wandered off as he asked, “I didn’t even recognise you. Did you do something new with your hair?”

He left Fenris gaping. Hawke was simply too big to blend into the crowd but like a dam breaking, a wave of residents swarmed him, cushioning Fenris’ glare. Even at church, Garrett Hawke was popular.

“You get used to it,” Varric said.

Fenris didn’t think his mouth was ajar but Varric was smiling at him so he pressed his lips together. “Do you?”

“No. I lied.” Varric breathed out, whistling through his teeth, as he surveyed the courtyard. “I’ve never smoked but I’m considering it. Look at this crowd.”

Fenris did. Most faces he didn’t recognise but they looked back at him curiously and he turned away. He spotted the red of Aveline’s hair first and then Merrill’s pale face and dark hair poking out from the scarf that was wrapped around her head like someone bundled her up before letting her out the door. They were talking to a family, Merrill bending at the knee to speak to the children who, despite being forced out of their warm beds and into the cold on a Sunday morning, perked at her attention and Aveline conversing with the dedicated parents.

Then Fenris turned his gaze to his side where Varric was rubbing his hands together to warm them. It seemed counterproductive when his chest was so exposed.

Fenris didn’t say that. He said, “You’re not devout.”

Varric’s lips quirked upwards at the statement, an observation rather than a question. “I’m not in Kirkwall to find God, no.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Not much of a church-goer, huh?” When Fenris gave him a flat look, Varric lifted his palms in defence. “Hey, I’m not one to assume. I just meant it’s a small village. It’s where the stories are happening. You know, since there’s not much else to do. I don’t know if anyone here believes in anything.”

“And Hawke?” Fenris didn’t look at him where he was standing a head above the people that craned for his attention. Sound carried with the wind, the notes of laughter dancing with the chill in the air.

“Does he believe in God?” Varric snorted and Fenris didn’t need to look when Varric did, Hawke reflecting in his eyes. “Who knows? But he believes in most things.”

Hawke had his palms raised, apart but upwards, only they praised nothing and prayed for nothing except perhaps the mercy of the middle-aged women who surrounded him, insisting that he come to their house for lunch after, it’s what his mother always had done, God rest her soul, Joanne had even made the mac and cheese Hawke used to love. Hawke made a joke about watching his figure and the women laughed like a chorus.

“So he’s gullible,” Fenris concluded.

He had expected Varric to laugh but he didn’t. “Some would call it faith.”

“And what would you say?”

Varric grinned at the question as if something about it pleased him, as though he took a special pride in being the expert on all matters related to Hawke. “I’d say it doesn’t matter if Hawke believes in God. I think if there is a God, he sure believes in Hawke.”

Fenris didn’t get to reply to that. Merrill had spotted them and waved like she wasn’t merely a few short steps away. She crossed them, Aveline following and apologising to the people Merrill accidentally tripped or confused by ducking and dodging around them with a quiet grace. They both greeted Varric and Fenris, Merrill with enthusiasm and Aveline with her usual business-like manner.

After pleasantries were exchanged, Varric asked, “Is that all of us?”

Aveline rolled her eyes. “I’m not here because I lost a bet, Varric.”

“I hope you’re not implying that it was a stupid thing to do, in retrospect.”

“No, I’m saying it. It was a stupid thing to do.”

Varric winced. “Well, I can’t argue with that. I’m guessing I won’t get the pleasure of Blondie at church this year either.”

“Oh, no,” Merrill said cheerily. “I think he’s still technically banned.”

Aveline sighed. She looked tired. “For life.”

Fenris didn’t ask. He suspected they didn’t have the time. Varric said, “And no Rivaini either?”

Merrill shook her head. Her mouth was still obscured but Fenris saw the frown in between her eyebrows. She voiced her concern. “She said she wasn’t feeling well.”

“Surprisingly, _not_ banned,” Aveline said with another roll of her eyes. “She knows that if she stepped foot in here, she’d burst into flames.”

Merrill seemed to not hear, focusing on tilting her head up to move her scarf from where it muffled her mouth. She managed to hook her chin over the material successfully. Her tone was absent minded. “I left her with some soup. I think I even made it spicy enough for her.”

“Let’s not get too carried away, Daisy.”

Hawke finally found his way back to his friends, rubbing at the lipstick marks that stained his cheek. Helpfully, Merrill dug into her pocket and fished out a handkerchief. He leant down and Merrill got to her tiptoes and only then was she able to reach his face comfortably. The sweetness of the gesture took a turn for the comical when she set to scrubbing, her own face screwed in concentration. Hawke didn’t complain, only wincing a little, the eye on Merrill’s side squeezing shut.

She dropped back onto the balls of her feet when she was done and Hawke rubbed at his cheek, as pink as the lipstick stains that had now disappeared. When he said, “Thanks, Merrill,” he did sound grateful. Then he clapped his hands together to get everyone’s attention as if there was anywhere else for them to look but at the spectacle. “Right, in we go, unless we want to sit up front with Meredith. She’s always so _shushy_.”

No one argued. Fenris wasn’t sure why he thought they would. They moved as though they’d done this countless times before, Hawke ushering them into the streams of residents filtering into a church that didn’t look like it was big enough to hold the town. Fenris passed with them through the wooden doors, big and impressive. Some people hurried ahead, bumping by, and others stalled, waiting their turn at a stone stoup where they would dip their finger into the water and cross themselves out of habit or out of passion. Fenris stopped behind Merrill and in front of Hawke who stuck close behind, so close that even though the air in the church was still and cold, Fenris felt his warmth. When he spoke to the fellow residents that were dragging their feet near them, he was almost speaking directly into Fenris’ ear. Fenris turned away the best he could.

And he used the moment to look around. As far as he could recall, he had never stepped foot in a church in his life but he supposed he knew what one would look like, like he knew a car or a home or a 7/11. It was enough to recognise that Kirkwall’s church was small and relatively modest. It was certainly not as dark as Fenris had expected it to be, the walls an off-white that was forgiving of just how small the windows were. They painted no pictures except the view outside of a mundane day and an emptying parking lot across the way, light streaming through reluctantly. Flanking either side of the wall on the far side were sculptures of Jesus that faced the seated, paint faded but almost intimidating in their size, protruding from the wall in all their glory. On the barely raised platform stood a podium and a long altar that was covered in a simply embroidered tablecloth and lined with gold candle holders, big and small but all lacking in shine. On the wall behind the altar, a sculpture of Jesus on the cross had been nailed, dead-centre. All depictions were inaccurately pale and blank-eyed. Fenris stared back.

It was also full, making it feel smaller, louder, generations of conversation echoing in a room that arched above them, ceiling carved. The pews were already filling up with men with too much gel in their hair and women with pearls around their necks and children that wriggled between them and the elderly that blew their noses loudly all the while. The seats were made of dark wood and divided by an aisle that was a celebration of symmetry with the exception of a raised and enclosed platform on the right side that looked across the congregation. No one stood in it, the man Fenris assumed the priest (black-clad with a stripe of white at the collar) making conversation to the side of the head of the room. Again, Fenris knew little of the practice but the man could not have been much older than he and Hawke were, auburn hair pulled back from his face and eyes so blue that Fenris could note them even from a distance. When he looked back at Fenris, his gaze was curious but fleeting, moving to the centre point behind him. Hawke. Even the village priest was obsessed with the man, it seemed.

Hawke didn’t notice, preoccupied in light conversation about the weather and the week. The others were performing a pantomime at the stoup, Varric exaggerating stepping aside to let Aveline ahead who rolled her eyes. She crossed herself but it was a brisk movement, eyes scanning the room as Fenris’ had, wary, as if looking for threats. But then she saw something he didn’t and it relaxed her, face warming. Fenris didn’t think she saw God but she marched away with purpose.

Varric did not take her place at the stoup. Merrill, too, didn’t make a move to do the religious gesture. Fenris wondered why any of them were here.

They looked at Fenris. He didn’t move. Merrill read it as hesitation and she piped up, “You don’t have to. I mean, you can but– well, I somehow always manage to get my sleeves wet.”

Fenris was unsure what kind of response she wanted so he just nodded. It seemed to appease her and she floated away, humming, onto the aisle. Varic called out, trying to stop her, “Oh, no, Daisy, not that far ahead– God–” He cut himself off when heads whipped around to look at him with narrowed eyes. He ignored them with a sigh. “We’re going to regret this.”

But he followed her anyway.

Fenris was momentarily unsure what to do. Merrill had said something so strange and yet it had not occurred to him until that moment that he did not have to do anything, least of all be here. He could leave. He could shoulder past the people tittering like birds and out into the open. There was no good reason for him to stay.

But then Hawke waved off the group ( _fans?_ ) around him and came to stand beside Fenris. Their sides touched. Hawke didn’t look like he intended to dip his finger in holy water. Fenris didn’t know if this surprised him or not.

As if hearing Fenris’ thoughts, Hawke nodded at the stoup and said, “Not a fan. All those fingers?” He pulled a face. “Who knows where they’ve been?”

People shuffled around them. Hawke took up a lot of room at even the base of the aisle but he didn’t seem to mind and no one stopped him. When Fenris turned to look at him proper, he found Hawke unable to hold back a grin, as silly as it was wicked. Fenris uncovered a memory suddenly, a piece of information he had tucked away, a bedside drawer full of sex toys and a Bible.

What Hawke believed was anyone’s guess.

“Now,” Hawke said, putting his fists on his hips as he looked out towards the floor, “if you’ll excuse me, I need to go sort out some seating disputes. I can’t take them anywhere.”

He headed in the direction towards Aveline, Varric and Merrill who were crowding the aisle in the middle of the church. Aveline was pointing to the front, Varric was gesturing back with his thumb and Merrill was folding a pamphlet to entertain some children sitting in the nearest pew. Hawke didn’t get far, however, because like it had been at the entrance and at the pub and most likely the hospital when he had been born, everyone seemed to want to be around Hawke. His name echoed off the wood and the stone and he had to wave or shake his head or sidestep grabbing hands at waist level. Fenris had half expected Hawke to sit beside the first person who asked but he seemed insistent to join his friends, as insistent as those that bothered him. After a few moments, it became painful to watch.

So Fenris didn’t turn back. He made his way further into the church (of all places) until he stood beside Hawke. Nothing more. Just stood.

It was enough. At Fenris’ arrival, the pestering paused. It was a couple who looked at Fenris unsurely and Fenris looked back at them, unflinching. When they attempted to pursue the conversation, Fenris crossed his arms over his chest. Their voices broke.

Hawke put a hand on Fenris’ arm and squeezed, communicating his relief. He told the couple that they had to keep going, Merrill had saved them seats ahead (she had now sat down and her pamphlet was a slightly wonky origami swan) but he hoped they enjoyed their getaway next week, maybe Hawke would join next time? As they walked away, Hawke didn’t retract his hand from Fenris’ arm but he did smile as he had at Merrill, grateful in the simplest way. Fenris was relieved when he eventually let go.

Varric and Aveline were still bickering when they rejoined the group, something about the seating arrangement and how they would only be left alone at the back– but there was space up front– which there always was because no one wanted to sit there– well, if they didn’t decide soon, they’d be stuck here. Merrill was not offended, making the swan in her hands flap its wings.

“We’re wasting time,” Aveline said squarely.

Varric snorted. “You’re scared someone’s going to sit by your little crush? Take it up with God.”

Impossibly, Aveline flushed. “That’s not– I wasn’t–”

“Okay, cut it out. Both of you.” Hawke wedged himself between them. His voice was surprisingly firm. “This is holy ground.”

At this, Aveline threw up her hands in defeat and Varric sighed again. They both sat down, Aveline taking the vacant spot besides Merrill and Varric the row behind. Under his breath, Varric murmured, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you all.”

Fenris sat down beside Varric but Hawke was still standing, this section of the church full of families that had also been eagerly awaiting Hawke’s seating choice. He was also, it seemed, popular with children. Varric slid so far down in his seat that Fenris didn’t think he could see over the heads in front of them.

Not everyone was preoccupied by Hawke, however. One of the children Merrill had been entertaining wriggled in his seat and, against the wishes of his shushing mother, turned to look at Fenris. Fenris stared back.

“Are those real?” the child asked, pointing at his tattoos.

“Yes,” Fenris answered without missing a beat.

He grinned and his front teeth were missing. “ _Cool_.”

When Hawke squeezed into the pew, it was a cue. Everyone stood up to join him, even Varric, albeit reluctantly. Fenris had lost his footing and he wasn’t even on his feet.

Hawke looked down at him with a smile. “You’ll want to stand, trust me. It gets a bit awkward otherwise. The holy can be a bit judgy.”

Fenris stayed sitting. Mass began.

*

It was well into the afternoon by the time Fenris and Hawke made their way back to the farm.

Mass went on for what felt spiritually like eons but literally it could not have been longer than an hour. It began with singing, a woman with a voice that wasn’t so much good as it was determined bullying everyone into joining. Fenris’ companions were no exception. Merrill sang with a sweet little lilt as if the words were a nursery rhyme and Aveline looked straight ahead like it was a test, her voice a little rough around the edges but genuine all the same. Varric hummed and Hawke sang with his chest, head tilting side to side. His voice was deep and every word sounded like he was grinning. Whenever Fenris looked over at him, he was.

They could not, however, save what was overall a poor performance. Collectively, everyone was out of tune and pitch and anything else that made a group singing _good_. Mercifully, everyone knew the words but Fenris suspected that this was out of tradition and not dedication, as if the songs were the same that had been sung since the church had been built, brick by brick, in a Kirkwall that looked no different except for the people that occupied it.

Fenris would also not stay sitting, despite his stubbornness. He had crossed his arms over his chest, expecting the congregation to be comprised entirely of wills like the weak ones that had balked earlier at his presence next to Hawke. However, it seemed the atmosphere of a Mass in motion inspired its participants. His glare was matched, fierce and unforgiving as a God to the godless. It didn’t bother him but after the third instance of the entire front row turning to look sourly back at him, Varric said, between his teeth bared in a grimace, “We’re getting cooked back here, Broody.”

So Fenris conceded. But then there was the matter of merely keeping up. As part of the senseless order of the worship, everyone stood and sat and kneeled and stood again at a rhythm that his body was not attuned to. Often, everyone was already sat down again before Fenris realised he was the only one still standing and Fenris felt he had only just sat down before everyone was standing once more. When his irritation at the sheer stupidity of it all started to show in between his eyebrows, Hawke sniggered. It only served to make Fenris frown harder.

The only thing the religious enjoyed doing more than singing was reading. The priest, a man named Sebastian which Fenris learnt because Varric grumbled under his breath about him, asked who wanted to read to the people and pounced on innocent members of the congregation, the reluctant or the sleepy. When the burden fell upon Aveline, Merrill said, too loudly, “Look, that’s Donnic right at the front. You like him, don’t you?” Aveline walked to the podium and read her entire passage with a face as red as her hair. Hawke and Varric found the whole ordeal endlessly amusing, perhaps explaining why they were here at all. Fenris was just glad the heat was off him.

Reading was also one of the more boring parts of Mass. Varric frequently nodded off where he was sitting (or standing or kneeling) and whenever Fenris looked over at Hawke, his mouth was fixed in a smile and his eyes vacant as though there was nothing behind them except elevator music. He did become animated when the priest took centre stage, though the reason why was beyond Fenris’ limited understanding of Hawke’s limited thinking. It was not as though the man was a terrible speaker – Father Sebastian spoke clearly at a listenable pace and his voice had the kind of conviction that was a testimony to his faith. But he was not completely unwavering, not when you knew where to look, and Hawke did, alert unlike a daydreaming Merrill and awake unlike a now fully snoring Varric. The priest would look across the sea of people with eyes the colour of sky and get caught on Hawke’s gaze. All Hawke had to do was tilt his head. Like looking at the sun, the priest would jerk his chin away, sentence stuttering. He would clear his throat and carry on with some resemblance of grace but it made Hawke smile, wider and wider, every time.

Whatever this game was excited Hawke, like a predator playing with its prey. Fenris, on the other hand, was envying Varric’s ability to seemingly sleep with his eyes open. During the last few prayers, Fenris turned his gaze upwards, not towards God but the ceiling. There was nothing to see there but it was more worthy of his attention because even though Father Sebastian spoke with sincerity, his passion was unmoving. There was no driving force behind his sermon, only his belief that it was the truth. The certainty of it was boring. He was comfortably faithful, undeterred by the uncomfortable coughing and shuffling of the unfaithful before him. When he prompted prayers for the congregation to repeat back, his volume didn’t rise or fall, steady but certainly not awe-inspiring. It was his central failing as a speaker, that he believed that everyone believed as he did, that the heavens were up and hell was down.

Not that Fenris was open to being convinced. He had never been one to pray, not when he knew the only god was in your own hands.

And then Hawke grabbed his hand. Around them was a chorus of _peace be with you_. Hawke’s hand was warm, so warm compared to the constant cold of the church, and he echoed the words with a low, quiet voice, genuine in a way that was dangerous. Everyone was turning to someone, extending their hand and their wishes of peace. Fenris knew he was supposed to say it too, back to Hawke. He said nothing and Hawke didn’t let go of his hand.

He said, “You’re not going to say it back? Don’t you want peace with me, Fenris?”

He was joking and it was in the corner of his eyes. In the corner of Fenris’, people were waiting for Hawke, eager to replace Fenris’ hand with their own. Fenris asked, “Is that what you want? Peace?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Hawke smiled as he spoke. Fenris realised suddenly the difference between Hawke’s smiles, the self-assured smirk and the earnest grin and the smile that could shake the very heavens. It explained, at the very least, why the priest shook under it.

Fenris did not say what he wanted to. _I don’t know what to believe._

Hawke released his hand and turned to shake another. And another. And another and another and another. Few tried to shake Fenris’ hand. Varric regarded his expression and said, “Huh. I should try that sometime.” Fenris should have left then, past Hawke and his fans and out into a world that made sense – or at least more sense than Hawke’s.

He didn’t so he did not have a leg to stand on when everyone lowered to the ground once more, watching Father Sebastian prepare the crackers and wine. Varric’s stomach rumbled. Hawke, of course, looked perfectly comfortable on his knees. And then to the sound of somber singing, people rose, one by one, row by row, to face the priest. Fenris’ determination to stay seated _this_ time at least did not last long as he was forced to his feet in a surge of movement. He was wedged between Varric who shrugged, tossing a thumb over his shoulder at those who had been sat beside him pushing them all forward, and Hawke who almost _skipped_ to join the queue.

And then any minor relief at the moment to stretch his legs was short-lived as they drew closer to the altar. People extended their palms, one over the other in the shape of the wings of a bird, and a small circular cracker was placed in the centre. An exchange of _Body of Christ_ and _Amen_ passed in rhythm, beat after beat. Fenris looked down at his hands, Godless but his own. He pocketed them.

When Hawke reached the priest, he didn’t stretch out his hands either, only opened his mouth. Fenris could only watch in horror as Father Sebastian deliberated, almost exasperated, but Hawke waited, taunting and tempting. The priest’s eyes flickered like clouds passing, with more emotion than they had seen all morning to settle into something dark, an entire day crossing his face. He reached out slowly and placed the cracker on Hawke’s tongue. Fenris had half expected another punchline of a joke, Hawke’s jaw snapping shut on the priest’s fingers. There was none, only Hawke’s eyelids fluttering a little like he was caught in a breeze. The cold in the church was still. The only movement in that moment was fleeting, Hawke’s tongue so pink against the white of the cracker, as pink as the throat of the priest against the white of his collar. Father Sebastian’s fingers could have lingered. They didn’t but they could have.

And then the moment passed. Hawke was grinning when he turned around. He winked at Fenris as he walked away.

The priest and Fenris stared at each other. A touch weakly, Father Sebastian offered the Body of Christ and Fenris’ mouth snapped shut in fear that the priest would put his fingers anywhere close. He heard Hawke’s voice in his head. _Who knows where they’ve been?_ Varric was snickering behind him.

Fenris compromised and stretched out his hands to accept the offering. He didn’t go so far as to say, “Amen.” The priest frowned a little, paling again, but Fenris was already walking away, following Hawke to loop around the pews, now sitting on the opposite side. The view was no better. Hawke was running his tongue across the inside of his mouth with a satisfied expression. When Varric joined them once more, he looked from the priest to Hawke to Fenris and said to Fenris, “You don’t want to know.”

Fenris couldn’t argue with that. The cracker was still curled in his palm. With nowhere else to put it, he simply shoved it in his pocket. Varric was asking Hawke, “Did you enjoy that?”

Hawke pulled a face. “It always gets stuck in the top of my mouth, the little bastard.”

“Any further complaints?” Varric said dryly.

“No nutritional value. Terrible stuff.”

“Gotcha. I’ll pass ‘em along.”

Fenris was almost squirming in his seat for the remainder of the service. The woman who led most of the singing, a robust and red-faced lady with a mean glare and an eager gait, took to the podium to read what was essentially a round-up of the news of Kirkwall, so-and-so’s baby being baptised and the state of the construction on the nearest highway out of town. And then she asked for everyone to pray, pray for Caroline who had taken a shine to environmentalism and was now offering to compost everyone’s food waste and pray for the healing and wellness of Mr and Mrs Murphy’s son, Ian, who had sprained his ankle during cross country at school and pray for Hawke’s chicken–

Father Sebastian interrupted to quietly assert that they did not pray for animals. The woman spoke over him to emphasise that they _would_ pray for the health of Hawke’s chicken.

“Amen,” Varric said, too loudly.

And then, because none of them had apparently had enough of singing, the woman led the last bout, stomping and clapping and raising her hands to encourage everyone into a fit of rhythmic devotion. The church shook with it and in front of them, Merill was dancing from foot to foot and Aveline was clapping off beat. The sound of it would echo even after the final note had been sung. Mass ended but the congregation lingered, the entirety of Kirkwall making a slow exit, gossiping about the state of the Father’s homily and who would be hosting lunch after and if they had seen Hawke’s new friend, the one with the hair and the tattoos–

Fenris tuned them out, desperate to, ears ringing. Even as his companions were caught by the elbow, Fenris shouldered past, breathless for fresh air, an open sky and distance from the people that said _Hawke_ with the same intonation as _Amen_. He was one of the first to step out of the church and watched groups filter out, families that were finally unable to ignore their whining children, teenagers that had evidently been promised something in return for their obedience for the hour and groups of women who gestured wildly, cackling between themselves like schoolgirls.

Fenris watched first as Varric avoided them, even the women who fluttered at his proximity (it was hard to say what kind of fans they were), and then they avoided Merrill, giving her a wide berth with a similar wariness with which they regarded Fenris. Aveline smiled with straining patience as they caught her to ask her of her love life, in the earshot of a man that waited for a painfully embarrassed Aveline who eventually, through gritted teeth, excused herself in the name of keeping the village safe, all to the endless delight of Varric. By the time Hawke finally walked out through the doors, there were at least a dozen of these women ready to ask him of his plans for lunch, the nearest hooking their arms through his or patting his chest as they looked up at him with pleading expressions. Even Hawke was threatening to be overwhelmed by it, casting desperate looks their way. No one moved.

Varric gave Fenris a sly glance. “Not going to give him a hand?”

Fenris glared back at him. “No.”

Eventually, Hawke managed to untangle himself, claiming loudly that he had promised Merrill that he would go over to hers after Church (he hadn’t but Merrill was pleased at the idea.) Most of the women broke off but a handful remained, conceding to lunch at Merrill’s even though their smiles were forced. When Father Sebastian came out into the courtyard, one woman insisted he join them too. The priest looked only at Hawke as he declined. Hawke grinned as if he had said yes.

It was a short drive to Merrill’s home, a small apartment that smelled of freshly baked bread and was full of plants, books and novelty pens. On a sofa covered in a throw that looked handmade, of a similar style as Hawke’s cardigan, sat Isabella, half-draped in a blanket and watching TV. She raised her eyebrows and bowl of soup at their arrival. The church women looked critically at her state, decidedly not sick but wearing a loose shirt and pants as if she had just gotten out of bed, though gold still glinted around her neck. She winked at Fenris in greeting.

Hawke insisted on helping Merrill heat up some food and set the table. The women lingered at it unhelpfully, speaking in hushed tones as they looked around at the almost impressionist artwork Merrill had framed. Varric saw Fenris staring at it too and explained, “It’s all by her students.”

He ventured further into the apartment and kicked Isabela’s dangling leg to prompt her to shuffle aside before sitting down in the space she made. He leant back and closed his eyes as if he hadn’t napped enough.

Isabela looked between him and Fenris and then said, “That bad, huh?”

Varric opened his eyes to give her a look that was answer enough. She shrugged, putting down her bowl on the coffee table and crossing both her legs under her. “I told you so.”

“It’s a long-term investment.”

“It never pays out.”

Varric winced. “It can have its merits. It doesn’t but it could.”

Isabela snorted. “They blessed Hawke’s sheeps again, didn’t they?”

From the kitchen, Hawke shouted, “The chicken, actually!” More quietly, he was telling Merrill that it wasn’t even _his_ chicken, Carver would be so cross–

Fenris moved a pile of papers, annotated with exclamation marks and stars in green pen, off the armchair to sit down. Isabela watched Fenris with a slow smile and said, “Well, I hope you all prayed for Hawke’s cock.”

Fenris was saved from having to respond. The doorbell rang and Isabela kicked off her blanket to let Anders in who was wearing what Fenris could only assume was his work clothes, the same combination of shirt, jumper and trousers and an expression of immediate exhaustion as soon as he laid eyes on the women at the table. They blinked back at him, as if surprised that his _technical_ barring from church did not extend to Merrill’s home. When she came out of the kitchen cradling a Dutch oven between overly large oven mitts patterned with cats and saw Anders, she beamed and announced, “That’s everyone for today. I think.”

For all the suspicious looks passed between groups and even at the food (which was so delicious, it made the church women prod at the parsnips with narrowed eyes), the early lunch passed mostly in peace. Anders seemed too tired from his morning in the clinic to antagonise anyone, barely giving Fenris a second glance in favour of enjoying his lunch break, and most of Isabela’s innuendos were ignored by everyone but Varric who was keeping count of how many went over Merrill’s head. Hawke chatted easily to everyone about anything, leaning back in the rickety chair at the head of Merrill’s crowded dining table. It was so small that his knee pressed against Fenris’ under it. It kept Fenris from bouncing his up and down restlessly.

As Varric recounted with considerable embellishments Aveline’s budding romance with her colleague, Fenris considered the mismatched crockery and the wooden spoons with pipe-cleaner arms and googly eyes placed in a glass jar in the centre of the table like a bunch of flowers. The knowledge that Merrill was a teacher explained the ease with which children had interacted with her, not having yet grown out of the innocence they all seemed to share. Though the women that had joined them were not outright unkind to Merrill, they treated her with caution, as wary of her as they were of Isabela who licked her spoon slowly at every opportunity and Anders who rolled his eyes at the mere mention of God, even as an exclamation. Merrill, in comparison, seemed a saint.

But then Hawke asked her what she thought of the sermon today and she said, quite simply, “Sebastian’s not very good at telling stories, is he? I got bored a few minutes in. He should have added some magic. Ooh, Varric, you could give him pointers,” and Fenris understood why the women frowned so hard around her. She was as sacrilegious as the rest of them.

Still, the next time Merrill was instructed to do something in the kitchen only for one of the women to scrape back her chair and follow her through, insisting that Merrill wouldn’t know her own home, Fenris stood up. The woman hesitated and Fenris waited for Merrill to pick up a bowl before he followed her towards the kitchen. He stood at the doorway as she reheated some mashed potatoes, barring anyone else access. She said nothing as the microwave light cast revolving shadows across the kitchen walls but every so often, it illuminated her smile. It was small. It was solidarity. Later, when she packed leftovers for everyone, she gave extra to Hawke and Fenris and warned Hawke with a stern voice that the additional helping of honey-glazed carrots were for Fenris specifically because she had seen how he had chewed more slowly when eating them. Hawke had sworn on all gods, old and new, that he would not eat them.

When Fenris and Merrill returned to sit at the table, Hawke’s knee knocked against Fenris’, deliberate. The women left as soon as lunch was done.

Anders would leave soon after too, needing to get back to work, and Varric would sigh at the thought of his own, a blank page, but exit with him. Hawke stayed long enough to help with the dishes but then they too left Merrill and Isabela on the sofa, resuming a competitive baking show under a blanket they shared.

The drive out of town was quiet, as if both of them were catching their breath. They let it out at the sight of the open fields, a far cry from narrow pews and cold stone walls. Fenris looked over at Hawke for what could have been the hundredth time. He found he was always looking at Hawke.

“You don’t believe in God,” he said, breaking the silence.

Hawke gave him a questioning side-long glance. “Are you asking?”

“I don’t need to.”

Hawke nodded, mock-thoughtfully. “Good talk.”

Fenris did not take the bait. For a few more minutes, they rode in silence. Fenris could still hear hymns in it, whispers of devotion.

Then, suddenly, Hawke said, “Merrill likes to cook.”

“What?”

“She comes along to church because afterwards, she can invite people back to her house and feed them.”

At Fenris’ baffled expression, Hawke explained, “I think it was to stop the rumours about her being a witch.”

It explained very little. “Merrill?”

Hawke shrugged. “She hasn’t aged a day.” Fenris stared at Hawke’s smile as if it would answer anything, as if it ever did.

“Everyone else is far more straightforward. Aveline is too practical to leave fate in anyone else’s hands but she’s always gone to church. We don’t talk about Anders. Or Isabela for that matter. And Varric?” Hawke turned onto the land that Fenris was coming to recognise as property of the Hawke family. “Well, he lost a bet. But he’ll go where the stories are and the stories are where the people are.”

“And you?”

Hawke grinned. “I’m people.”

They stopped briefly to pick up Champ from Carver’s and then finally parked back at Hawke’s home. As Fenris waited for Hawke to unlock the front door, he shoved his hands in his pocket and pulled out the forgotten Communion cracker.

Hawke glanced over his shoulder at it. “You didn’t eat the Body of Christ?”

Fenris shook his head. He held it out. “Do you want it?”

“Two bodies of Christ on one Sunday? I must be the next messiah.” Thankfully, Hawke opened his palm and not his mouth and Fenris dropped the cracker into it. They both regarded it for a moment, the moon in the centre of Hawke’s palm dwarfed by the sheer size of his hand.

They may have stared down at it for a stupid amount of time had Champ not leapt up to seize the cracker with his mouth and run through the open door. Hawke yelped and snatched his hand back but otherwise let Champ get away.

They both stared at Hawke’s now empty palm. He closed it and Fenris raised his eyes to meet Hawke’s. In a grave voice, Hawke said, “Amen.”

Fenris pushed past into the house but Hawke still caught the beginning of laughter on the edge of Fenris’ features, a quiet unlike anything that the morning had seen. Hawke laughed behind him, loud and true.


End file.
